


Devices Of The Heart

by stewardess



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Everybody Lives, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Silvermane the stag, Thorin is majestic, Young!Thorin, stag!Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardess/pseuds/stewardess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While visiting the outskirts of Mirkwood on business, Thorin meets a white stag determined to ruin his life. Or so it seems. Young and inexperienced, Thorin may yet be the prince who succeeds in laying bare the white stag's secret.</p>
<p>Inspired in part by a <em>The Desolation Of Smaug</em> deleted scene, in which Thranduil projects himself as a white stag, and appears in that form to Thorin.  Story takes place both pre-Smaug and post-Smaug.</p>
<p>Beta by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/pseuds/eyebrowofdoom">eyebrowofdoom</a>.</p>
<p>With <a href="http://megatruh.tumblr.com/post/128188648290/prince-thorin-and-stagthranduil-in-little">illustrations by megatruh</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Little Greenwood

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Devices of the Heart(translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4863863) by [AliceonceinNeverland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceonceinNeverland/pseuds/AliceonceinNeverland)



[The White Stag of Mirkwood](http://megatruh.tumblr.com/post/128188648290/prince-thorin-and-stagthranduil-in-little) by megatruh.

When Thorin turned twenty-two, his grandfather King Thror entrusted him with important business, even though Thorin would not fully come of age for nearly a decade. The task: to choose the year's trees.

Coal from the Iron Hills kept Erebor's smelting furnaces aglow, but for the royal forges, in which the last of the Moria true-silver was fashioned into wonderful objects by Thror himself, the clean flame of hardwood charcoal was preferred.

But no large stands of mature trees, the raw material for charcoal, remained near the Lonely Mountain. To obtain the wood, the dwarves of Erebor made an annual journey by boat to the Little Greenwood, a small woodland divided by the River Running from the vast, dark – some said accursed – forest of Mirkwood.

_I'll send you to Mirkwood_ had long been a potent threat to frighten dwarf children into good behaviour. Mirkwood was rumoured to have vampire bats, gigantic spiders, and other creatures horrible beyond reckoning. Thorin suspected the rumours were fairy tales, but there was one danger Mirkwood undeniably had: elves.

Elves were immortal, hazardously silly, and not fond of dwarves. Unfortunately, the elves could not be avoided, as the Little Greenwood did not belong to Thror, but to the Elvenking, Thranduil, who ruled over all of northern Mirkwood.

Some years before Thorin was born, Thranduil had granted logging rights to Thror in return for Ereborian gold, but Thranduil could withdraw the rights if he was displeased – and it was practically inevitable the Elvenking would be displeased, according to Thorin's cousins Gloin and Oin, who had had tree detail the previous year. Thorin had not heard the full tale, but it was all too easy to imagine the trouble his elder cousins had landed in, since they had failed to meet the full tree quota, and Thranduil had forbidden the two dwarves from ever returning to the elven woodland realm. 

Still, between Mirkwood and Erebor there had long been peace, and, more importantly, profitable trade. Thorin would have to take care not to antagonize the elves, for charcoal was vital to Thror's forges, which burned night and day. Indeed, night and day had little meaning in Erebor, for the dwarven city always blazed with light. On the rare occasions Thorin beheld the naked evening sky, he found the stars feeble and cold compared to Erebor's golden lamps.

* * *

With the blessings of his father and grandfather, Thorin set out for Mirkwood on Midsummer Eve.

Thorin's departure was not universally joyful. Frerin and Dis, his younger brother and sister, cried and begged to go with him, but they were still children in the care of nurses. To stop their tears, he promised to bring them magnificent gifts from his travels. There would be nothing in the woods to rival dwarven-made toys, so Thorin regretted his promise almost as soon as he made it.

The first leg of the journey was a leisurely pony ride from Erebor along the River Running (here too steep and swift for comfortable water travel) to the Long Lake, where Thorin and his company boarded a boat. 

Thorin was not traveling alone. Far from it. Three companions – two bodyguards, and an elderly servant from the royal household – had been chosen by Thror. Allowed to choose one for himself, Thorin had selected his cousin Dwalin. In addition, the hired boat was crewed by three Lake-men.

The two bodyguards, Nari and Nali, were satisfyingly respectful, but the servant, Blain, had known Thorin since infancy and was inclined to nanny him. Nevertheless, Thorin regarded the boat (admittedly a humble barge) as if it were his kingdom, and all aboard his subjects. It was the first time he had been given complete responsibility over others while away from home.

The crowd of attendants irked Thorin slightly, even though he understood why his grandfather was worried about his safety in the wilderness. But Thorin was sure he was equal to the task ahead, even if he had set out alone, because he had learned everything befitting a prince.

Thorin was already skilled in the mining and working of precious metals, but all dwarves, girl or boy, were practically born with that knowledge. It was his other accomplishments Thorin took pride in. Nearly five feet in height, he could expertly ride a pony, and once (on a dare from Dwalin) a horse. Even by the high standards of his people, he was superb with the bow, the axe, and the sword, because it was a prince's duty to defend his folk from every danger. 

Not that there was any danger to speak of in Erebor. Fast inside the Lonely Mountain, the dwarven city needed little protection. Its outer walls were fashioned from an impenetrable green stone forged long ago in a convulsion of the earth. Erebor was so strong, and the surrounding lands so peaceful, Thorin sometimes regretted being born into a time of quiet, for there were no opportunities for adventure. In the Little Greenwood, Thorin did not expect to meet with anything truly dangerous – but it was pleasant to imagine he might.

* * *

It was Thorin's turn as lookout. His bow at the ready, he stood at the front of the boat and gazed ahead. 

It was their third day out from Erebor. Trees pressed close on either bank of the River Running. On the west was Mirkwood; on the east the Little Greenwood. A faint tow path ran along the eastern bank.

At sunrise that morning, they had passed from the Long Lake into the mouth of the River Running, which resumed its solitary course to an inland sea hundreds of miles away to the southeast. Their river journey would be only the length of the Little Greenwood, fifty miles. They traveled with the current, and the Lake-men were at their oars, so progress was brisk.

Thorin was not watching for the rumoured monsters of Mirkwood, or even an outlaw (rare was the bandit foolish enough to attack a well-armed party of dwarves), only for their landing place, but he deemed it wise to keep his bow drawn anyway.

Thorin had accompanied Gloin and Oin when they had been dropped off the year before, so he was confident he would recognise the landing place. It was said to be near the Old Forest Road – the _Men-i-Naugrim_ , as the elves called it. No dwarf gave it that name, for _naugrim_ , the Elvish word for dwarves, translated to the insulting term _stunted_.

The ancient dwarven-built road had traversed Mirkwood, linking the eastern lands to the mountain pass to Eriador in the west, and to the Great River which flowed south to the sea, but most of all to Khazad-dum, once the largest and richest of the old dwarven kingdoms, called Moria by elves and men. Centuries earlier, there had been great traffic on the Old Forest Road; now there was none, for Moria had fallen to evil long ago. No dwarf now living had laid eyes on the road, much less used it to cross the wilderness of Mirkwood.

* * *

The river widened, turning rocky and shallow. The Lake-men navigated with care, until they at last reached the landing place at sunset. Back on good, solid earth, Dwalin lit a fire. While Blain cooked their supper, Nari and Nali put up a tent for Thorin and Dwalin; the rest of the party would sleep in the open air. 

The Lake-men had come ashore with them, to pass the night before leaving for their homes in the morning. Thorin and his companions would slowly retrace the river route on foot, selecting trees for felling as they went, until they drew near the Long Lake. There the Lake-men would pick them up a month hence.

The Little Greenwood was frightfully tree-ish to Thorin, but its open woodland was nothing compared to Mirkwood proper, which could be seen across the river from their camp. The legendary forest's trees rose as sharp and solid as a cliff-face, casting a darkness which seemed unnatural to Thorin, who was unaccustomed to gloom unconquered by lamps. The dismal sight was at least softened by the full moon's slender beams glimmering on the wide river. 

After supper, Thorin brought out his small traveling harp. Dwalin had his fiddle, and the Lake-men contributed reed pipes and a drum, so it was a merry evening of music and song.

When he retired to the tent with Dwalin, Thorin was nearly as comfortable as he was in his bedchamber of carven stone in Erebor. Outside, water rushed with a pleasant sound over smooth stones. But it did not lull him to sleep immediately; instead he turned over the evening in his mind. 

While Thorin had played his harp, a patch of light had appeared in the trees across the river. Moonlight reflected in the water, perhaps, but the light seemed to move independently, first appearing upriver, then down.

Tales told of people seeing illusions in Mirkwood, terrible things that brought them to the brink of madness, so Thorin had resolutely looked away. Whatever it was that he had seen he put down to a momentary fancy.

* * *

The next morning, before the Lake-men and their boat were out of sight, Thorin and his companions packed up. Thorin was eager to start because the trade agreement gave him only a month, scarce time to accomplish his task, though thankfully Thorin was responsible only for selecting the trees, not felling them. That chore the elves reserved for themselves.

They found a path and entered the woods. The ground was level, the forest floor free of boulders or streams, but this section of the Little Greenwood was too picked over for any of its trees to be harvested. They would have to travel further north each day, and deeper into the wood.

* * *

Thorin could say with precision when events turned against them.

Blain was cooking their evening meal on the second day when three owls swooped upon their fire.

The owls' wings hurled ashes into the dwarves' faces, temporarily blinding them. In the confusion, the owls snatched the sausages cooking on the fire. Nari and Nali waved their arms and shouted, but the owls were already in the treetops with the stolen dinner.

Blain put the fire in order and cooked more sausages. Dwalin stood guard, wielding an axe.

Thorin was not troubled, at first. They were well supplied, and, if their food ran low, they were permitted to hunt – with elven restrictions, naturally.

The animals they were forbidden to kill (a long list including owls, eagles, stoats, hedgehogs, and snakes) were all animals dwarves considered inedible, except for one: white deer, which were reserved for the Elvenking's hunting parties.

It was said that anyone who harmed a white deer in Mirkwood was never seen again, and many were the goblins (and even a few men) who had failed to heed the warning, and had subsequently disappeared. According to the tales, the transgressors were killed by Mirkwood's magical guardian, a great white stag.

Thorin had never seen white deer; he doubted they existed. The story about the white stag, like so many about Mirkwood, was ridiculous. 

But the night after the depredations of the owls, badgers took the dwarves' bread. The night after that, foxes stole the remaining sausage, and most of the cheese. Thorin at last grew worried, but above all angry. Animal bandits seemed the sort of mischief elves were likely to be at the bottom of.

Dwindling food was not their only problem. Thorin had found and marked only three trees in the four days since they had arrived. Finding trees that met the Elvenking's restrictions was no easy task, for each selection Thorin made affected his future choices; there were quotas for each tree species, as well as for size. At his current rate, his mission would take him nearly half a year, not the month allotted.

For the second time since beginning the day's tree hunt, Thorin consulted his map. Dwarven surveyors had divided the Little Greenwood into a grid, with stone markers at regular intervals. The map showed where trees had been taken in the past.

Getting the necessary wood had not always been so onerous. Once the elves had performed every step: selected the trees, felled them, and delivered the logs to Erebor. But when Thorin was a young lad of seven, Thror had accused the elves of providing wood of declining quality, and had insisted the dwarves do the logging themselves. After much wrangling, Thror and Thranduil reached a compromise: the dwarves would select the trees, but the elves would fell them, and delivery was turned over to the Men of the Lake.

After two hours of searching, Thorin at last found another suitable tree. He took a metal stake out of a bag on his belt and prepared to hammer the stake into the tree at eye-level. The stake markers were provided by the elves; only sixty markers had been allotted this year.

Just when Thorin was about to hammer the stake with the wide blunt edge of his axe, Dwalin called out, "Thorin, wait!" 

Dwalin pointed up. An owl was perched high in the tree, its round head sticking disapprovingly out of a hollow.

Trees home to birds of prey were not allowed. If Thorin had marked the tree, the elves would not have felled it, but returned the marker to Thror with a chilly note about the rules. Gloin and Oin had failed to meet the quota the previous year because so many of their choices had been rejected by the elves.

Thorin took out his copy of the logging contract, which began _At King Thranduil's pleasure_ , the only clear phrase it seemed to contain. As he read the elaborate script, looking for a possible exception, Thorin seriously considered he might fail, as Gloin and Oin had. Perhaps he should give up, return to Erebor, and let someone else take on the task.

But once the month elapsed, the dwarves would not get another chance to obtain wood until the following year. It could take two weeks to return to Erebor, and for a new party to reach the Little Greenwood. Thror had already paid a flat rate for the trees. If Thorin did not meet the quota within the allowed thirty days, his grandfather would suffer a loss. Thorin had to persevere no matter how small his chance of success.

* * *

After they returned to the river to make camp in the late afternoon, Thorin announced they would have to hunt that evening to eke out their stores; too much food had been lost. Hunting meant longer days, but Thorin did not point that out. His companions' glum faces announced they knew full well.

Nari and Nali went south, while Thorin and Dwalin went north. Blain remained at the camp to guard their remaining food.

Thorin had gone hunting many times with Dwalin, so they maintained a comfortable silence as they made their way along the riverbank, but Thorin felt an unusual excitement. It was the first time in his life a hunt truly mattered.

As the day's light waned, animals would come to the river to drink. When Thorin and Dwalin reached a likely spot, they sat in a clump of tall grass, but saw only small creatures such as squirrels, and once perhaps a weasel. It was difficult to tell in the fading light.

Suddenly a red deer appeared not twenty feet away, sprinting for the river. Without pausing for thought, Thorin let fly an arrow. When the arrow landed in the deer's flank, Dwalin cheered.

The deer slowed, but it did not halt, and was soon across the river, where it vanished into the trees on the opposite bank.

For a moment, they were still and silent with disappointment, then Dwalin waded purposefully into the waist-deep river.

"Dwalin, come back!" Thorin said.

They were forbidden to take game on the west side of the river – in Mirkwood proper – and although Thorin had shot the deer on the east bank, crossing the river to retrieve game was undoubtedly the sort of thing that earned the Elvenking's displeasure. 

"It will take only a moment," Dwalin said. "As long as you stay where you are, Thorin, no fingers can be pointed at you, and that is all that matters."

Thorin hesitated over his decision. He was regretting the shot more with each passing moment.

The deer was without antlers in midsummer, so it was a doe, and doe hunting season did not begin for another two months. Not to mention he had not killed the doe outright. It was unpleasant to imagine the wounded doe dying a slow death. Dwalin could at least end the beast's suffering. And besides, Thorin knew Dwalin was eager to prove himself as Thorin's indispensable companion.

"Go, then, as quickly as you can," Thorin said, nodding assent.

Nari and Nali appeared at a run; they had evidently heard Thorin and Dwalin calling to one another.

"Follow Dwalin," Thorin ordered. "Help him retrieve a deer I shot."

Dwalin had reached the opposite bank. Nari and Nali quickly crossed the river, and disappeared with Dwalin into the trees.

A few minutes later, when Blain also appeared, Thorin explained what had happened. Blain made a disapproving face, and paced fretfully up and down the riverbank. Thorin would have found it annoying, but as time passed he grew increasingly fretful himself. If the deer could be found, Dwalin would have found it by now. After a quarter of an hour, Thorin could wait no longer.

"Stay here," Thorin told Blain.

Ignoring Blain's protests, Thorin forded the shallow river. Trees and underbrush crowded the west bank. Roots reached greedily into the water. Thorin had to force his way into Mirkwood through grasping branches. The sun had set, and only a faint light filtered through the towering trees. After a few minutes of tiring struggle, he reached a small clearing barely large enough to lie in.

"Thorin!" Dwalin whispered, then Thorin could see Dwalin crouched down on the ground; Nari and Nali stood close by.

Relieved, Thorin knelt at Dwalin's side. "We must return to the river before we lose the light," Thorin said. "Come! Forget about the deer."

Dwalin held up an object, the broken end of Thorin's arrow. Thorin could barely make it out.

"The deer is nearby," Dwalin whispered. "I saw it."

Thorin knelt beside Dwalin and peered into the forest. He could see only dark, looming shapes, which his mind told him were trees, but his heart told him were something more sinister. He was about to question Dwalin's sighting of the deer in the gloom when leaves rustled behind them.

Dwalin turned to look, and his eyes were suddenly round and staring.

"The guardian of the forest!" Dwalin cried.

_Nonsense, that is a horse_ , was Thorin's first thought when he turned around.

It was not a horse. It was an enormous white stag, the tips of its antlers eight feet above the ground. A faint radiance came from its white hide, dazzling Thorin's eyes. 

The stag lowered its head, as if it intended to spear them on its great antlers. Thorin and Dwalin sprang to their feet. Nari and Nali exclaimed in fear.

"Steady now," Thorin said. "We are safe enough, I deem. This clearing is too small for the stag to enter."

As if to mock Thorin's assurance, the white stag reared up. Its hooves came down hard on a fallen tree, shattering the log.

The dwarves turned and ran as fast as they could through the dense vegetation. When Thorin reached the riverbank, he waited. Nari and Nali emerged from the trees. Dwalin did not.

Cursing, Thorin had turned to go back into the forest, when Nali called out, pointing down the riverbank to where a dark form lay. Thorin hastened to it, and was vastly relieved to find the shape was Dwalin, and that Dwalin was unharmed by deadly hooves. But something was wrong. Dwalin appeared to be asleep, of all things, and lay peacefully beside a dark stream emptying into the river. His eyes were closed, and there was a foolish smile on his face.

Thorin knelt and placed his ear against Dwalin's chest; Dwalin's heart beat strongly. Less frightened, and therefore more annoyed, Thorin shook Dwalin vigorously.

"Awake!" Thorin demanded.

Dwalin slumbered on.

"Do not touch the stream, Master Thorin!" Blain called from across the river.

Nari and Nali carried Dwalin back across the river to their camp, and placed him in the tent. Thorin helped Blain remove Dwalin's sodden boots, then Blain covered Dwalin with a blanket.

"Dwalin must have stepped in an accursed stream," Blain said with ponderous solemnity. "He is under an enchantment of Mirkwood. A bewitched sleep."

"Ridiculous," Thorin said, but the sight of the white stag had rattled him, and his voice wavered.

"Mirkwood's enchanted streams can make a man sleep for weeks," Blain said. "I heard of a man who slept for half a year. It is said a sorcerer has taken over Mirkwood, and cursed it with a dark spell."

This was preposterous, but Nari and Nali nodded in agreement. Thorin did not argue the point; there was nothing to do but eat a frugal supper, go to bed, and see if Dwalin woke in the morning.

* * *

Dwalin did not wake the next morning, or the next, so Thorin announced that Dwalin must be taken back to Erebor and put in the care of Oin, who would know how to break the inconvenient enchantment. Dwalin would be hugely disappointed to have been sent home, but that could not be helped.

Nari and Nali would have to carry Dwalin upriver to the Long Lake, where they could wave down a passing barge or fishing boat. The two guards agreed to this without complaint, although it would be a weary journey. But when Thorin told Blain to go as well, leaving Thorin alone to carry out the tree mission, Blain protested.

Thorin was ready for it. He pointed out that Nari and Nali, burdened with carrying Dwalin, would have an easier journey if Blain looked after them along the way.

While Nari and Nali built a makeshift litter for Dwalin, Thorin took Blain aside and said in a quieter tone, "I need you to take a message to King Thror. Tell him the elves may be sabotaging my mission, and to send me six hearty dwarves, well-supplied, or I may fail to complete the task he has set me."

Blain looked unconvinced.

"I cannot trust such a message to Nari and Nali," Thorin added. Entirely untrue, but it had the desired effect.

"Of course, Master Thorin," Blain said, chest swelling with importance.

Thorin nearly added, "Tell Thror owls stole our sausage," but the phrase was so ludicrous he merely said he would camp on the riverbank each night so the relief party could easily find him.

They divided up the supplies. Thorin kept the fishing equipment, and took nearly all of the arrows, giving the departing dwarves most of the remaining food, as well as the tent to protect the helpless Dwalin at night.

Thorin assisted Nari and Nali in finishing Dwalin's litter, then watched his companions depart northward, leaving him alone. If Nari and Nali made good time, and found lake transport swiftly, it could be as little as ten days before the relief party from Erebor reached Thorin. During that time, Thorin planned to find and mark as many trees as he could. He still had forty-six to go.

Despite the setbacks, Thorin was exhilarated. He was free to choose when he slept, when he woke, and where he went. Free of the constant chatter of Blain. It was the first time Thorin had been truly on his own, and he relished it.

* * *

Thorin found and marked four trees that day, justifying his high spirits, and was going to continue searching when he recalled he had to set up camp alone. He returned to the river, collected firewood, and got a blaze going, even though it was still an hour before sunset.

After eating a light meal of cram (hard bread rolls made by Lake-men) and dried meat, Thorin took the precaution of suspending his food pack from a tree branch twenty feet up. No foxes or other scavengers would get a single crumb more from him!

Wrapped in his cloak and a blanket, Thorin found it pleasant to lie by the fire as the sun went down and the sky turned from pale red to deep blue.

The sun sank completely, leaving Thorin in the fire's small circle of light. All else was blackness. It was as if the world had shrunken and disappeared.

Thorin looked up; the stars would put an end to the illusion of nothingness. A huge moth flew in his face. Thorin waved it away. Another moth collided with his hand.

Within moments hundreds of moths were all around him, attracted to the fire. He tried to brush them off, but there were too many. Pulling his blanket over his head brought momentary relief, but the night was stifling, and the blanket felt smothering. Thorin missed the tent more than he had expected.

Thorin reluctantly put out the fire. When the moths left in disappointment, he lay back down. With the fire out, he could at last see the stars in the night sky. He had never slept under the open sky before; always there had been a barrier between him and the heavens. Even on the boat, he had slept under an awning to keep out the damp night air.

The stars above Mirkwood seemed brighter than everyday stars, and moved with a strange swiftness on their appointed paths, like silver fish in a black swirling pool. Thorin felt as if he would slip off the face of the earth and fall into them and be drowned.

To steady himself, he imagined the stars as lamps within Erebor. When that failed as a distraction, he pulled his blanket over his face again, but it was still too hot. From the stars there was no escape.

* * *

Thorin woke in the grey light of dawn. His first thought was gratitude for finally sleeping after hours of uneasy wakefulness.

The thought fled when there came a loud crashing noise close by, like a giant striking a tree with a massive hammer. Thorin sat up, his mind clearing. A similar crash must have awakened him. 

He was heartily inclined to ignore the noise; it suggested a large wild animal. Then Thorin realised the sound originated from the tree suspending his food pack.

Thorin threw off his blanket and cloak. He had slept with his boots on, as anyone of sense did when alone in the wilderness. He seized his axe, which was near at hand.

Another tremendous crash. It had to be a bear.

Thorin strapped on his bow and quiver, and checked his belt for his knife. How the weapons would serve him against a massive wild animal he did not know. It took all the courage he possessed to go in search of the beast trying to take his food.

What he found was more alarming than a bear. It was the white stag.

Just as Thorin arrived at the tree, the stag charged it and hit the trunk with its antlers, making the crash Thorin had heard. The tree shook violently, and the pack slid down a few inches.

Thorin's fear turned to anger. "You!" Thorin said.

The Elvenking's rules said nothing about forest animals staying on the Mirkwood side of the river, but Thorin considered the stag's presence in the Little Greenwood to be unfair. Thorin knew his anger was illogical – what would a stag care for anyone's edicts, real or not? – but he was angry nonetheless.

"Shoo!" Thorin shouted. "Go home!"

He spoke to the stag in the common tongue, not because he thought the stag would understand it, but because Dwarvish was spoken only to other dwarves.

In the rapidly growing morning light, Thorin could see the stag more clearly; he had had only a brief panicky glimpse in near darkness the first time. About the stag's neck was a thick ruff of fur, a majestic neckmane a dwarf lord would have been proud of. 

After staring at Thorin for a moment, the stag took a step toward him. Thorin braced himself, expecting the stag to charge, but instead the stag made a teasing skip, as if Thorin was a fawn the stag was inviting to play.

Thorin did not know why the stag had dropped its belligerent demeanor. Because Thorin was alone and less of a threat?

Thorin fitted an arrow to his bow. He sensed an ill fate would befall him if he was to fire upon the stag, but he had to have his food pack. Without it, his mission was doomed to failure. All his time would be taken up with hunting.

Ignoring him, the stag charged the tree once again. Its antlers collided with the tree trunk with a horrific crash. Bark flew, the tree shuddered, and the food pack came tumbling down.

Before Thorin could react, the stag lowered its head and scooped up the pack, the pack's rope wrapping obligingly around an antler. The stag turned tail and ran toward the river. It leapt across the water from stone to stone, foam flying from its hooves, the morning sun shining on its white hide.

Thorin followed, jumping from stone to stone in imitation of the stag, and made it across the river without getting more than one leg wet. For the second time he entered Mirkwood, following in desperation and in anger, picking up items dropped from the stolen food pack as he went.

The recklessness of what he was doing soon chilled him. In a short time, no more than half an hour, Thorin was no longer sure in which direction the river lay, and could not reliably estimate how far he had traveled. The sun was rising, but in Mirkwood the darkness was almost absolute.

Before him was an impassable tangle of thorny vines. He would have to go around it, or turn back. Then he heard a noise ahead which he could not immediately identify, a sound of energetic but hopeless thrashing. Thorin warily circled the bramble, treading on wet decayed wood and other unpleasant things, until he saw a patch of light in the gloom.

It was the white stag, caught fast, its antlers entangled in the thorny thicket. Even in the darkness under the trees, Thorin could see the stag easily; again the stag had a faint radiance, as it had when Thorin had first seen it.

Many of the thorn bush's vines were thicker than Thorin's waist, but it was narrower shoots that had caught the stag's antlers. The stag had worsened its predicament by struggling, and was hopelessly snarled, its antlers caught as thoroughly as if the thorny shoots had been intentionally woven through them.

Disappointingly, Thorin's food pack was nowhere to be seen.

The stag stopped struggling. Its nostrils flared, smelling him. When it bellowed, the unexpectedly harsh, unlovely sound drew a tense laugh from Thorin.

"Your voice does not suit you, stag. It should be–" Thorin paused; it was foolish to speak to an animal. "It should be fair," Thorin concluded.

The stag tried to rear up, and failed.

Thorin did not think it necessary (or safe) to approach. Stags shed their antlers every year, so eventually the stag would work free, leaving its antlers behind.

But didn't deer shed their antlers in late winter? Midsummer had just passed. Perhaps the stag would not break free, but remain trapped, prey to any larger beast that came along.

Thorin pulled his axe from his belt.

Seeing this, the stag tried to rear and strike at Thorin with its hooves.

"Stop your foolishness!" Thorin said. "I shall free you, not harm you. Which is more than you deserve."

Moving slowly, and trying not to flinch each time the stag snorted forcefully, Thorin made his way into the thorny thicket.

Thorin cut away numerous vines before reaching those holding the stag prisoner. He climbed up into the thicket, perched precariously ten or so feet above the ground, until he was beside the stag. His hands and face were soon scratched and bleeding, and he felt an utter fool. Why not kill the stag and bring its fine head back to Erebor for all to marvel at? Why perform this small act of mercy, which no one would ever hear of – and would not be impressed by if they did?

In spite of the discomfort, he began to find a pleasurable challenge in the work. He followed each twisted vine to its source, then cut through it with his axe using a short chopping motion, careful not to wound the stag. Cutting the shoots which held the stag fast, without cutting the shoots which held Thorin up, required his concentration. 

When Thorin had cut most of the vines, the stag attempted to rear again, as if it knew it was close to freedom.

"Keep that up and I shall fall on you," Thorin said.

The stag stilled, silent except for an occasional loud snort.

"One more vine to go," Thorin said a few minutes later. 

He cut through it with his axe. The stag bucked, breaking free. Thorin collapsed in a tangle of vines. The stag leapt over him, soaring impossibly high. Cursing without restraint, Thorin crept out of the vines. He thought the stag would bolt, but it did not; it shook itself, settling its fur into perfect order.

Thorin got to his feet, brushed the dirt from his clothing, and tried to adopt a bearing as proud as the stag's.

Whether or not he believed in fairy tales, he seemed to have landed in one. If the stag was a magical beast of some sort, Thorin had to be polite, and he had to act as if he was not afraid of it.

"It's clear you are no ordinary stag," Thorin said in his best flattering tone. "Perhaps we can strike a bargain."

The stag regarded Thorin with large, dark blue eyes, and suddenly looked alarmingly intelligent.

"I apologise for crossing the river into Mirkwood earlier," Thorin said. "And I am sorry for shooting the deer, and... er, wounding it. I hope it fully recovers. But seeing as how I have set you free from what may have been a fatal trap – I refer to the thorny thicket which held you captive – and seeing as how you led me into these woods by – no doubt mistakenly – taking the only food I possess, perhaps you would be so good as to lead me back to the river. I swear never to set foot in your forest again." 

The stag's eyes seemed to hold understanding, but then it only bent its graceful neck and nibbled on a moss-covered rock.

Thorin would have to offer additional incentives. Fortunately, he was prepared to. In the unlikely event he landed among ruffians, he had a gold belt to serve as ransom. He removed the gold belt from around his waist (he still had a sturdy leather belt for his axe and other necessities), and held it up so the stag could see it. 

"Perhaps this will convince you to lend me your assistance?" Thorin said.

The gold belt, at first glance solid and plain, was constructed of interlocking rings in the style of chainmail, but far finer, a gossamer mesh which expanded and contracted to fit the wearer.

The stag stopped eating moss, and looked at the belt. Somehow – Thorin could not say precisely how – it looked extremely interested.

His heart beating fast, Thorin held the belt up higher. The stag ran toward him; Thorin involuntarily closed his eyes. When he opened them, the stag stood before him, its head bowed. Holding his breath, Thorin fastened the belt around the stag's neck. He was elated. The stag had accepted payment.

The stag tossed its head. The gold belt settled snugly just above its neckmane.

Then, without another glance at Thorin, the stag galloped away, and was quickly invisible in the darkness of Mirkwood. 

"Come back!" Thorin yelled, equally shocked and enraged. "Come back, you ungrateful beast!"

He would have to make his way to the river without his food pack. Trying not to panic, he took stock of the supplies he had salvaged while following the stag. He had a half-empty waterskin, two pieces of cram, and a salt box. He had also thankfully brought his axe, his bow, a quiver of arrows, and a hunting knife. He had a tinderbox. 

But he did not have a blanket, cloak, hood, or gloves. If he did not reach his riverside camp before nightfall, he would pass an unpleasantly chilly night in Mirkwood. No sun penetrated under the gloomy trees, and the air was far colder than it had been along the sunny river.

Thorin faced the direction he was reasonably certain he had come from, trying to retrace his steps. Before long, he spotted what seemed to be a path, and his mood lightened, until the path came to a halt at the foot of a great tree. By the time he made his way around the obstacle, he was no longer sure he was still heading in what he had guessed was the proper direction.

The sun had to be high in the sky by now; Thorin reckoned it was near noon. But from above came only a murky greenish glow, all the sunlight that could penetrate the dismally thick tree canopy.

His heart lightened once again when he found a stream. Remembering Dwalin's fate, he did not drink from it, but followed its course; it would presumably flow into the river. But after Thorin followed the stream for hours, it dropped over a small waterfall and disappeared underground, leaving Thorin as lost as ever.

It had been dark, but it was growing darker. Thorin resigned himself to spending a night in Mirkwood. Exhausted, he sat on a rock, took a few sips of water, and ate a piece of cram.

He had been warm enough while moving about, but now a chill settled on him. Should he light a fire? He could use the warmth, but in Mirkwood a fire could attract far worse than moths. He would have to do without. He began to assemble a bed of dry leaves. 

The first fallen branch he picked up swarmed with glittering, whirring insects. He hurled the branch away, and shuddered.

He lay on the same rock he had been sitting on earlier, and curled up as much as possible to stay warm. As he uneasily fell asleep, his eyes shut against the darkness, he cursed Mirkwood, and most of all cursed the faithless white stag.


	2. The Tree House

Thorin woke in the dim grey morning parched, hungry, and cold. He sipped water, but did not eat his remaining piece of cram. Was there any food safe to gather in Mirkwood? Aside from trees, all he had seen were monstrous mushrooms with an evil smell.

He turned in what seemed the most likely direction toward the river, and vowed to go in a straight line until he reached... something. Anything. But going in a straight line was impossible. Fallen trees, deep gullies, and jagged boulders blocked his way. Every time he went around an obstacle, he feared he was going further and further off course.

At last he found a path, and followed it doggedly, stumbling in weariness. It was the first time he had experienced true hunger. He had not known how debilitating it was. He was dazed, and his stomach clenched on itself.

The path led him to an enormous tree, just as the other path had, and there it ended. But this time at the base of the tree were the remains of a wooden ladder, too decayed to use safely. Thorin despaired for a few moments, then resolved to climb the tree regardless. If he reached the top, perhaps he could see the river.

Thorin gripped the tree's shaggy, trailing bark to pull himself up to its lower branches. He was twenty feet up into the tree when on his wrist came the first sting.

It was ants. Enormous biting ants. He climbed on, ignoring the pain. He was bitten again and again, on arms and legs, even his chest and back, and the bites itched fiercely. Still he climbed.

When he poked his head above the topmost branches, the sky was unexpectedly dark. Day had passed, and night was falling. The stars were strange in the clear sky, as if from a far-off time, and there was no trace of the bright moon he had seen by the river.

Thorin had no sense of which direction was east and would lead him back to the River Running. In the starlight, he could see only treetops in every direction, and he had not yet learned to navigate by the stars. He had not needed to, as he had never strayed out of sight of the Lonely Mountain; Erebor had been his constant point of reference.

His spirits sank to their lowest since he had crossed the river. He climbed back down the tree, sliding the last ten feet and landing with a painful thump. Another night in Mirkwood was inevitable. He found a flat rock to lie on, and closed his eyes.

But unlike the previous night, sleep did not come, for Thorin could hear things in the woods about him. Things in the ground below. Things in the trees, slithering things with hissing breath. Regardless of the cold, he sweated. He was well-armed, so surely he could defend himself against anything that came his way, but his mouth was dry with unreasoning fear, and he was close to trembling. At last exhaustion overtook him, and he passed into dreams even more nightmarish than his waking fears.

* * *

Hunger woke Thorin. The gloom was once again greyish, so somewhere the sun had risen. He sipped water; only a cup remained in his waterskin. He contemplated his last piece of cram, but eating it was too frightening. Once it was gone he would have nothing.

He had to hunt, and he was damned if he would abide by any elven rules this time. He declared to the trees that whatever creature he caught – no matter how disgusting – would be his breakfast.

As if in answer, the ground next to him began to stir. Thorin wanted to leap away, but he remained and watched. He was going to eat whatever came out of the ground, even if it was a viper – which seemed all too likely.

But what popped out of the earth was a creature like a mouse, except larger and fatter, smaller ears, and rich red fur. It pushed dirt up with its head, widening and improving its tunnel. Too small to be a ground squirrel. Perhaps a gerbil? Thorin had believed they only flourished in warmer lands by the Sea of Rhun, like the bright-coloured songbirds traded in Dale's markets.

Other small heaps of earth surrounded the hole, evidence of past labour. With businesslike intent, the possible-gerbil lay upon a dirt pile and shook itself rapidly, packing down the earth. The sight was so ridiculous Thorin laughed. The gerbil fled back down its hole.

"I congratulate you on your skill, little miner," Thorin said.

He sat quietly, and before long the gerbil appeared again, moving cautiously. It was followed by two smaller gerbils, mere babies, their eyes not yet fully open. Like him, the small creatures had begun life underground, in darkness.

"Come out to the light, little miners," Thorin said. "Or what light there is in these dark woods. I will not eat you. I promise."

A twig snapped.

The gerbils disappeared back down their hole. Thorin wished he could follow them. His fear, temporarily softened by the appearance of the gerbils, surged back. Something in the woods was watching him; he could feel it. 

Another twig snapped. Thorin stared at the tangled growth before him; he could see nothing there.

Then there was a loud snort, and the white stag appeared, only twenty feet away, an easy shot if Thorin had had the strength to draw his bow. Thorin wondered if he was dreaming, but it was undeniably _his_ white stag; the gold belt adorned its neck. 

"Have you come to gloat?" Thorin's voice was a dry croak.

The stag shook its head, fluffing out its neckmane.

A mist obscured Thorin's vision; he blinked his eyes rapidly. When he could see again, the stag stood close, practically over him, and the stag's antlers were crowned with purple. Thorin was definitely dreaming. Then the stag lowered its head and dumped a purple mass on Thorin's chest.

Thorin yelled in surprise. The purple mass rolled off his chest and into his lap. It was a thick bundle of thornless vines, heavy with ripe blackberries.

Thorin ate the berries quickly, before the stag changed its mind. The berries were juicy and sweet and needed no water to wash them down. Thorin's mind cleared slightly; his limbs were still weak.

The stag had remained, and was watching him. Was the stag finally offering help in return for Thorin's gold belt, perhaps? His greatest need was safe water to drink. If he followed, the stag would eventually lead him to a watering hole. But did he have the strength?

Thorin stood up slowly, swayed on his feet, and inadvertently clutched at the stag to steady himself.

The stag made a soft surprised sound, but did not shy away.

"Good boy," Thorin said. "Good stag."

A desperate idea appeared in his mind.

He was too weak to follow the stag, but perhaps he could ride the stag to a watering hole, as he would ride a pony. But how to convince the stag to accept a rider?

Tentatively, Thorin stroked the stag's fluffy neck.

"Good boy," Thorin said again. "I must stop thinking of you as _it_. You are a _he_ , and I shall call you... Silvermane. Yes, that's a fitting name for you, boy. Silvermane."

Thorin had picked up a small box of salt from the trail of dropped food pack items. Ponies loved salt; the stag should, too. And perhaps, after tasting the salt, the stag would be likelier to search out water. Thorin sprinkled salt onto his palm and held it before the stag.

"Here you are, Silvermane," Thorin said. "Try it. Good boy."

The stag sniffed Thorin's hand, then abruptly licked up the salt. There was a tickling sensation of rough tongue followed by a bony scrape of teeth.

The stag sniffed Thorin's hand again. Finding no salt, the stag poked Thorin's hand hard with his nose.

"Now, now," Thorin said. "That's no way to ask, Silvermane."

He sprinkled salt in his hand; again Silvermane lapped it up. It was time to risk getting on the stag's back. But how? With his arms outstretched, Thorin could barely reach the top of the stag's back. Without a saddle or stirrups, there was nothing to give him a boost up. Trailing tree branches were all about them, however. Thorin grasped one and tugged on it. It seemed firm enough.

Slowly, and with painful effort, he used the branches to pull himself up onto Silvermane's back, murmuring, "Good boy," and "Good Silvermane," over and over.

When Thorin was finally seated on the stag, he was so relieved his eyes smarted suddenly with tears. Silvermane's back was not the most comfortable surface, however. Thorin had once ridden a fat round pony without a saddle, but Silvermane was hard and muscular beneath his fur, flesh almost as unforgiving as stone.

"You must be thirsty," Thorin said. "Come on, boy. Let's find water."

Thorin stroked the stag's neck again. When Silvermane took a step forward, then another, Thorin was awash with relief. His desperate plan might work.

* * *

The stag followed hidden paths no wider than a footfall. Thorin tried to keep track of Silvermane's strides, but he was having difficulty staying awake. At least an hour passed; perhaps two.

Silvermane halted at an enormous tree thickly covered with blackberry vines. From the high vantage point of Silvermane's back, Thorin picked berries and ate them. Silvermane ate both berries and leaves. For some time eating was their sole occupation.

Thorin felt strengthened, but he remained on Silvermane until the stag reached a nearby stream with dark clear water, where Thorin slid from Silvermane's back. When Silvermane lapped the water, Thorin lay down on the bank, bathed his hands and face, then cupped his hands and drank. If Silvermane could drink, the stream must be safe and without enchantment. His thirst slaked, Thorin refilled his waterskin, sat on the bank, and rested.

A ray of sun slipped through the trees, refreshing his mood as the water had slaked his thirst. The thin beam shone on a coppery fish in the stream. Thorin instinctively seized the fish by the tail, struck its head on the bank to stun it, and swiftly cut off its head with his hunting knife.

Silvermane, after a quick glance up, continued to drink from the stream.

Careful to keep the stream and Silvermane in sight, Thorin moved a short distance away, and, with slow effort, gathered dead wood and started a fire, thanking Aule profusely for the invention of tinderboxes. He had the fire going well when Silvermane, whinnying like a panicked horse, ran over and attempted to trample the flames.

Thorin thought Silvermane was objecting to his intention to eat the fish, then realised Silvermane was objecting to the fire itself.

"Have no fear, Silvermane," Thorin said. "If dwarves understand anything, it is the use of fire. I will not set your woods alight." 

He got the fire going again, cleaned the fish, scraped off the sharp scales, speared it lengthwise on a stiff green blackberry vine, placed two stones on either side of the fire, and positioned the green vine so each end rested on a stone.

Silvermane had moved away to graze. Thorin went to see what the stag was eating, and found Silvermane delicately nibbling wholesome-looking tan mushrooms. He picked half a dozen, strung them on another blackberry vine, and placed them over the fire alongside the fish.

By the time the fish was cooked, had cooled for the few moments Thorin could stand waiting, and had been eaten along with the mushrooms and the last piece of cram, the dim light around had grown even dimmer. The sun must be setting, ending Thorin's third day in Mirkwood.

Silvermane had left off eating mushrooms to nibble the lichen which hung from almost every tree branch. Done with his mossy meal, Silvermane joined Thorin at the fire. Lichen dangled from the stag's antlers, and firelight gleamed on the gold belt about his neck.

Thorin decided to try bargaining with the stag once more. He stood up to give weight to his words.

"Silvermane," Thorin said. "O white stag of Mirkwood! May your antlers always be strongest. Please heed my plea, and guide me back to the river. My grandfather will pay you my weight in gold for my safe return."

Silvermane shook his head. Or was he dislodging lichen caught on his antlers?

"Your weight in gold?" Thorin said.

Silvermane lay by the fire and closed his eyes.

"I take that as a no," Thorin said. "But I can assure you my people will search for me, and that I will eventually be found. So why not gain a reward for the inevitable?"

Silvermane snored.

Thorin reviewed his situation. The relief party he had requested through Blain would find his abandoned camp within two weeks. After determining Thorin was missing, the relief party would first search for Thorin in the Little Greenwood. Once the relief party completed the search, would the elves allow any dwarves to search Mirkwood? Thorin doubted it; the elves would insist on searching themselves. In any case, it could be three weeks or longer before a search of Mirkwood began, and three weeks seemed an age to spend in the forest, hungry and cold. For the first time since he had successfully ridden Silvermane, Thorin's spirits sank down into his boots.

But he would no longer be hungry. Thanks to Silvermane, Thorin had a reliable source of water and food. His situation was not as desperate, at least for the immediate future. In the morning, he would catch more fish, pick berries and mushrooms, and (with or without the help of Silvermane) search for the River Running once more. Perhaps, unlike the other stream he had followed, this one would lead him to the river. And if it did not, he could return to this spot near the blackberries, the most agreeable spot he had encountered in Mirkwood by far, and come up with another plan.

Thorin settled himself as comfortably as he could on the ground beside the fire. The faint greyish light had turned to the complete blackness of night. Fortunately, no moths were swarming about the fire, so he could leave it smouldering; the comfort of it was immense. So was the presence of the sleeping stag, though Thorin was reluctant to admit it.

After two nights of broken rest in Mirkwood, Thorin expected to sleep soundly, although he was cold without his cloak and blanket; the fire threw off little heat. But with a meal in his belly, his sight and hearing were unfortunately sharpened. He became keenly aware of luminous eyes in the forest about him, and, worst of all, in the tree branches above.

The number of gleaming eyes in the darkness increased with each passing minute, as if every beast in Mirkwood had long waited to see a sleeping dwarf, and was determined not to miss this chance. Thorin tried to imagine the eyes belonging to harmless creatures like the gerbils, but some of the eyes were far too large for the illusion to be sustained.

Chill sweat spread on his skin, and his heart pounded frantically in his chest. He had resigned himself to another night of restless fear, when a warm pair of eyes, flickering with firelight, caught his. Silvermane was awake and looking at him curiously.

"I am unused to the wild, Silvermane." Thorin tried to smile, as if he were a guest at a dinner party going badly, and wished to reassure his host. "I come from a place which is the exact opposite of Mirkwood. Where all is order and straight-angled stone. If only there was a cave or something nearby. There perhaps I could find rest."

To Thorin's surprise, Silvermane got up and awkwardly bent his forelegs, as if inviting Thorin to ride. Thorin gathered up his few belongings and smothered the fire. Unfortunately, Silvermane did not understand the importance of standing absolutely still, so it took a huge effort for Thorin to scramble up.

Silvermane set off purposefully, perhaps taking Thorin even deeper into the forest, but Thorin was too weary to care. Besides, it did not much matter whether he was five miles from Mirkwood's border, or a hundred. Either way, he was equally lost. After nodding off a few times, Thorin gave into sleep.

* * *

Thorin woke, still seated on Silvermane; the stag had stopped. Thorin slid down from Silvermane's back and looked around him. 

It was rapidly growing lighter; night had passed and sunrise was near. Unlike the bewildering tree-tangle Thorin had encountered throughout Mirkwood, here Thorin could see almost a hundred feet in some directions. The trees, straight columns nearly as large as a house of Men, were in rows like an orchard. Numerous saplings had sprouted up, obscuring the orderliness, some large enough to have been around for many summers. Above them the parent trees – beeches, Thorin reckoned – concealed the sky.

Silvermane had halted at the foot of the mightiest tree, a different species from the rest, and looked pleased with himself, his antlers held high. 

"Good boy," Thorin said, trying not to sound dejected. He had begun to believe the stag understood his speech, and that their destination would be a dry and cosy cave. 

Nevertheless, he studied the tree, which had an oddly shaped trunk. He went closer, and saw the foot of a narrow wooden staircase. The staircase wound about the trunk, up and up. Numerous shoots obscured the stair, and tree bark overlapped it. Without Silvermane drawing attention to the tree, Thorin would not have noticed the stairs at all.

At the top, Thorin might get a glimpse of the river, or some other landmark. He prodded the stairs with his axe handle; they seemed sound enough, and there were absolutely no ants.

"Wait here," Thorin said to Silvermane. Impulsively, he patted the stag's neck, and added, "Good boy. Very good boy."

Thorin went up slowly, avoiding slippery drifts of leaves. The stair risers were high, not made for one of dwarven height. Missing stair treads revealed a dizzying glimpse down.

He counted one hundred and twenty-four steps before he reached the top. There, half hidden by leafy branches, was an elaborately carved wooden door. It was unlocked. Opening it revealed a treetop house consisting of a single large room. He stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.

Judging by its size and style, not to mention its Mirkwood location, the treetop house had been built by elves. It was surprisingly well-furnished. There were a table and two chairs, a bed, a desk, a bookcase, a cupboard, and many large chests. 

Thorin had heard of tree-dwelling elves, and had dismissed it as a silly rumour, but now he understood it had been a simplification, equivalent to the rumour dwarves lived in holes in the ground.

The tree house had many windows, none glazed, but instead fitted with wooden shutters, all of which were open. Exposed to the elements, the room should have been overrun with forest creatures, its fine furnishings bored by beetles, its draperies and carpets shredded by birds and mice, but the room was almost pristine, as if its inhabitants had just left. Only a few scattered leaves on the floor and a thin film of dust on the table showed the lack of a caretaker.

Even with the many windows to admit it, the morning sun was not sufficient illumination. Thorin found a candle stand and lit the candle. Holding the lit candle in one hand, he examined what was drawing most of his interest: the bed.

A noise at the door made Thorin turn. It was Silvermane, trotting into the tree house as if he owned the place. The door was large enough to admit the stag, and the high ceiling easily accommodated his antlers. Thorin was startled, as Silvermane had come up the stairs near silently.

Dwarves strongly objected to the presence of animals in a house, even the best behaved cats and dogs, but Thorin set down the candle, and rewarded the stag with salt.

He turned his attention again to the bed, which would have easily held four dwarves. The bedclothes were warm and dry, as if they had been aired before a fire, and their inviting cleanliness underscored how dirty he was after days in the forest. A bath was in order. Such an elaborate home would have a water source. Perhaps there was a well below?

Thorin heard a familiar sound, the gentle trickle of water, then heard a sound he was coming to know: antlers striking wood. 

The house's supporting tree trunk rose through the centre of the floor and up through the ceiling. Silvermane was attempting to drink out of a large clay basin mounted on the trunk, his antlers preventing him from getting close enough.

Four feet above the floor, the basin was too high for Thorin to comfortably look into. He pulled over a chair and stood on the seat.

A steady stream of water flowed into the basin from a copper spout protruding straight out of the tree trunk. A drain around the basin rim prevented it from overflowing, directing the water into another copper pipe which ran down through the floor, perhaps to the tree's roots far below. Evidently a large tree used many gallons of water a day, and could spare a little. It was an ingenious closed system.

A ladle hung beside the basin. Thorin filled it from the spout and cautiously sipped the water. It had a strong green taste, as if strained through leaves, but was not unpleasant. After finishing the ladle, Thorin felt oddly invigourated.

Now for Silvermane. Thorin found a large stone bowl on the table and filled it with water, but, having seen the stag drink (a rather messy process), he was reluctant to place the bowl on the tree house's floor.

In addition to the stair entrance, there were two adjoining doors; logically they would lead to a porch or balcony. When he opened the doors, his guess was confirmed. The balcony ran around two sides of the tree house, and was large and sturdy enough for the stag. Thorin set the stone bowl down, and, without thinking, made the clicking sound he used to summon ponies and other beasts of burden. Silvermane stuck his head out of the doorway, saw the stone bowl, and came to drink.

Pale morning sunlight glittered in the branches above, although the tree canopy appeared far too thick to permit it. Thorin patted the stag and quickly went back inside; he was used to heights inside Erebor, but the view from the balcony of the surrounding trees, their branches moving in the breeze, made his stomach stir uneasily. Perhaps later, when the sun had fully risen, he would see a landmark that might settle him.

He had water; now to heat it. The tree house had a small hearth of bricks glazed dark green. The hearth was of sufficient size for cooking, and for heating water, but there was no fuel at hand, and going down the staircase to find wood was too much for Thorin in his current sleepy state. A cold bath it would be. For the first time since he had left Erebor, Thorin fully undressed. He found another large bowl, filled it with water, and washed.

After putting on his cleanest underclothes, Thorin closed the window shutters, but left the doors to the balcony and the staircase open so Silvermane could come and go.

Thorin climbed into the bed, drew the covers up to his chin, and sighed with relief. Just as comforting as the bed was the solid beamed ceiling above.

Silvermane came in from the balcony, drawn by Thorin's sigh perhaps, and laid on the floor, resting his furry head on the foot of the bed – which Thorin's toes did not reach by at least a yard. The stag's antlers filled Thorin's field of vision like an angular shrub.

"Good boy," Thorin said.

Thorin wondered if Silvermane had once had an owner, and if the owner had lived in the tree house. Then sleep overtook him.

* * *

Thorin was awakened by someone knocking on the door. He sat up, not remembering where he was.

There was no one at the door. Silvermane, looking forlorn, was bumping a closed window shutter with his antlers.

Half asleep, Thorin rose from bed and opened the shutters. Silvermane promptly devoured leaves from the branches outside. Fully awake now, Thorin dressed quickly. He was eager to explore the tree house.

First Thorin went out onto the balcony, and was rewarded with the sight of sunlight shimmering in the branches above. His eyes were dazzled. When they adjusted, the sunlight was revealed to be reflections from innumerable small bits of glass suspended in the tree branches, directing light from above down below.

It was as bright as Thorin had ever seen the forest, so he estimated he had slept from early morning until noon. But he could still see nothing but neighbouring treetops from the balcony. Learning he was no closer to finding his way out of Mirkwood momentarily dimmed the sunny view in his eyes, but there could be helpful articles, even a map, awaiting discovery in the tree house.

Back inside, Thorin evaluated the tree house as a structure. By dwarven standards, it would be condemned as flimsy as a bird's nest. But in Thorin's current circumstances, it seemed a mighty refuge amidst Mirkwood's wildness.

The tree house had a single glazed window, in the ceiling above the bed. Fortunately, Thorin had been too tired earlier to notice, or else he would have been kept awake, wary of seeing creatures in the branches above. It was easy enough to place a chair upon the bed, climb up, and cover the window with a blanket; problem solved.

The stag snorted loudly, and went to the staircase door.

"Goodbye, Silvermane," Thorin said. "I suppose you must go eat moss, or something."

He wanted to ask the stag to return, but could not think of a way to put it that did not sound imperious. While Silvermane had consented to serve as a steed, the stag was not an ordinary animal that could be ordered about. Silvermane would return only if Silvermane wished to.

As Silvermane almost noiselessly went down the stairs, Thorin investigated the cupboard.

There was wine in dusty but well-sealed bottles. There was food, dried meat and nuts, but the meat had turned to dust and the nuts were rancid. There was decayed fruit Thorin first took to be scraps of leather. Off the balcony the spoiled food went. There were also a dozen leaf-wrapped cakes, which appeared sound. Thorin nibbled a corner of a cake, greedily ate it all, and regretted it; the rich cake sat heavily on his stomach after his short commons.

There was an oil lantern and a small cask of oil, to be saved for a dire need. Kettles, pots, and pans. Tin cups and clay plates. Silver spoons, forks, and knives. A few waterskins, all twice the size of his own.

Thorin turned to the chests. Blankets, bed linens, towels, and handkerchiefs. A wooden comb and square bars of pale green soap. Clothing far too large for him, but he could alter it to fit; he set a woollen cloak aside. Coiled rope, a whetstone, and a strop, three items that made Thorin happier than any other discovery. A handsome wooden harp almost but not quite too large for Thorin to play.

The desk and bookcase: leather-bound books in unreadable Elvish, snowy sheets of fine paper, half a dozen quills, and a nearly dried-out ink bottle. No maps, so that hope was dashed.

Thorin saved the largest and most elaborate chest for last. It was made of bronze, very heavy, and locked, but the key was in the keyhole. The contents were not a disappointment: a gleaming hoard of weapons and jewellery. 

He was familiar with elvish weapons. The dwarves of Erebor had made many to elven specifications, and some, unpaid for, had never left the Mountain. The chest held a fine example, a pair of identical swords with curved blades.

Thorin attempted to swing the swords in turn, and discovered they differed. One had a right hand grip, the other a left. Both were far too long and heavy for Thorin to swing without exhausting effort. He wished he could resize them, but he had no hope of constructing a proper forge, and they were too beautiful to alter, anyway. Fortunately, there was a fine curved dagger almost as long and broad as a dwarf-sword. Thorin took it, relieved to have it in addition to his axe and small hunting knife. There were also ample arrows, fish hooks, and a bow too large (Thorin reluctantly admitted) to wield. The arrow shafts, however, could be trimmed to fit his bow.

In a small casket within the chest was jewellery, chiefly rings and brooches. Thorin took a leaf-shaped brooch to fasten the cloak he intended to make, but left the rest of the jewellery where it was; it had no practical use.

There was one last treasure. In a soft cloth bag was a white crystal the size of a hen's egg. The crystal was pierced with a silver rod and attached to a short chain, but the stone was too large to be worn as a pendant. In the soft light within the tree house, the crystal glowed faintly; perhaps at night it would cast a useful illumination. Thorin tucked the crystal into a pocket.

Done with the chests, he cast an appraising eye over the woven goods throughout the tree house, and fingered a heavy drape; the cloth might do for a tent. Suddenly the drape fell to the floor, revealing a mirror over six feet in height. Thorin was briefly horrified at the sight of his dishevelled hair, then laughed at his reflection.

Somehow the mirror and its ornate silver frame was the most intimate thing he had found. But why had it been covered? To keep it free of dust? That did not seem likely, since nothing else had been covered.

Who had lived in the tree house? An elf, that was certain, but what else could be known from the surroundings? The furnishings were an odd mix – a barren luxury. The finest silver utensils coupled with rough clay plates. The bedclothes were supple linen, but the mattress was thin; if Thorin had not slept on the hard ground the last few nights, he would have found it unbearable. The tree house was not a full-time home, but the summer house of a wealthy elven lord, perhaps?

Thorin cleaned the floor, a simple affair of sweeping the debris out onto the balcony, through the railings, and into the air. The fallen leaves, dark red and gold, were from the previous autumn, so it had been at least six months since anyone had tidied the place.

He went down the stairs and gathered wood for the hearth, chopping larger pieces with his axe, bundling them with rope, and trudging back up with the load. He could haul the wood up, saving himself much work, if he created a rope pulley from the tree house balcony, but that would first require trimming many branches.

He started a fire on the hearth, placed a kettle on it, and used a smaller pan to fill the kettle with water. While the water heated, he combed the tangles out of his hair, then rolled a wooden tub twice the size of the bathing vessels he was accustomed to onto the balcony. He poured the now-steaming water into the tub; the full kettle was almost too heavy to lift. He bathed thoroughly, washing his hair, then draped himself in a clean towel.

He was dressing when Silvermane came up the stairs.

"Silvermane!" Thorin said. "You came back." He was hugely relieved the stag had returned.

Silvermane went out on the balcony immediately. Thorin heard the sounds of noisy drinking; the stag was drinking out of the tub. Thorin refilled the stag's water bowl, then washed his stockings in the tub before pulling out the tub's cork stopper and draining the water off the balcony into the greenery below.

When Thorin went back indoors, Silvermane followed him in, then suddenly froze before the mirror. Silvermane lowered his head, raised it, took a few steps backward, then forward, and appeared deeply distressed by the experience. Thorin covered the mirror again with the drape. It would not do for Silvermane to attack the furniture.

"If you are going to come into this house," Thorin said to the now-calmer Silvermane, "then you must be clean."

Thorin had never mucked out a stall, but he had learned how to care for the ponies he rode. He checked the stag for brambles and ticks, including easily overlooked areas such as inside the ears (which he reached with the aid of a chair). But the stag was strangely clean for an animal living in the forest. Perhaps Silvermane swam regularly in Mirkwood's rivers.

To make a complete job of it, Thorin needed to look under the gold belt Silvermane still wore as a collar. Perhaps it would be best to remove the belt and leave it off; after all, Silvermane had not kept his end of the bargain and led Thorin out of Mirkwood. But when Thorin tried to unfasten the belt, Silvermane reared up. The wooden floorboards creaked ominously. Thorin hastily leapt down from the chair before it was overturned.

"Very well," Thorin said. "You may keep the belt, Silly-nose. Bringing me to this shelter is payment enough."

With a base to operate from, Thorin could prepare his escape from the forest. He could build up his supply of food, fill every waterskin. Save the leaf-wrapped cakes for the journey. Use the clothing left behind by the previous occupant to keep himself warm.

But recalling the strange trackless stars he had seen from the ant-infested treetop, Thorin worried about finding a way out of the forest, even with his new advantages. If he reached a high point and found a landmark, he would lose it the moment he descended below the treetops again.

He was alone in the vastness of Mirkwood – but not quite, because he had the company of the white stag.

Whether or not Silvermane was the fabled guardian of the forest, the stag seemed to have decided to be the guardian of _him_. Thorin felt safer with the stag close. Silvermane would smell and hear danger long before Thorin would. 

And yet the stag – no ordinary stag – had lured him into Mirkwood, and seemed to want Thorin to remain there. It reminded Thorin of a fairy story, in which a young hero was befriended by a magical animal, which aided the hero on a quest. A common lesson of fairy stories was to be courteous to the rude stranger. Thorin had fulfilled that already by freeing the stag from the thicket. What more could there be?

Perhaps the stag wasn't a stag at all, but an enchanted being. This was fanciful, but Thorin could not entirely dismiss it.

Perhaps Thorin would remain a prisoner of the forest until he broke the enchantment and freed the stag. But how? Would he have to find a hidden treasure? Perform feats of bravery, strength, or cleverness?

"For your sake, let us hope it is not cleverness," Thorin said to Silvermane, who took no notice of his jest.

Whatever Thorin's challenge might be, it would be something greater than providing Silvermane with salt. Something larger was at work. And Thorin was beginning to understand that, in comparison to the great forest of Mirkwood, he was small indeed.

Thorin had longed for adventure. Now he had it. The nature or purpose of his adventure was as yet unknown. He must maintain a state of readiness for whatever was to come next.

He set to work altering an elf-sized cloak into a dwarf-sized cloak.


	3. The Fight

Thorin had grown up on tales of the hardiness of Durin's Folk, but had heard the tales while eating from dishes made of gold. Now his dishes were of tin and clay, and there was no one to serve him, but in many ways he relished the hard work filling his life. Each day had many tasks: hunting, cutting firewood, cooking, washing dishes, and making spare clothing. 

He spent several days repairing the tree house staircase, replacing missing treads and rotten supports, until he deemed it safe for the stag. He considered adding gates to the stairs, top and bottom, but decided against it; the passage had to be left clear so Silvermane could come and go. He also left the window shutters open at all times so Silvermane could graze on the foliage.

He set to work on a hauling system, first dangling by rope like a miner from the balcony to clear the branches below, then installing a rope pulley to bring up firewood.

Almost every day, Silvermane took him out into the forest. Thorin hunted for game birds, fished in the streams, and gathered mushrooms. They returned to the tree house every night. 

There was only one problem: riding the stag left Thorin's lower half painfully sore.

One day he decided he would make a saddle.

He painstakingly stitched together the remnants of the woollen cloak he had cut down to size, padding it with a woollen blanket. His initial design turned out to be too ambitious for the tools at hand, so he was forced to simplify it.

At last the saddle was finished. Thorin picked up salt as a bribe, and made a clicking sound. Silvermane followed him down the stairs. At the foot, Thorin positioned Silvermane next to the stairs, then stood four steps up so he could easily reach Silvermane's back. After placing the saddle on Silvermane, Thorin ran down the steps and fastened the ties running below Silvermane's chest.

"Good boy," Thorin said, and gave Silvermane the salt.

As soon as Silvermane finished licking up the salt, Silvermane craned his neck, trying to look at his back, then abruptly lay down and rolled on the ground.

"No, boy!" Thorin said. "Get up! Silvermane!"

From the ground, Silvermane looked up at Thorin reproachfully.

"Look what I have!" Thorin took a mushroom out of a pocket.

Silvermane got up and accepted the mushroom.

Thorin had a sudden inspiration. He took out another mushroom and sprinkled it with salt.

"Good boy," Thorin said. "Here you go, my lovely."

Silvermane ate the salted mushroom, gave Thorin a look of deep respect, and immediately lay down again.

"Bad stag." Thorin sighed, and removed the saddle.

When Silvermane promptly stood up, Thorin climbed onto the stag's back, and they set off.

The stag did not always take Thorin hunting. At times Silvermane seemed to be showing Thorin favourite haunts: almost-sunny glades with wild flowers blooming under the trees; oaks so huge Thorin could only stare at them in silence. Today seemed to be another such excursion.

The stag's destination was a large pool, filled by a ten-foot waterfall. After Thorin dismounted, the stag plunged noisily into the water.

"So much for fishing," Thorin said, but he smiled. 

Silvermane swam purposefully, back and forth, looking at Thorin all the while. It seemed to Thorin almost as if the stag was exaggerating his movements, like a pantomime of swimming.

Thorin flushed, realising the stag thought he could not swim, and wished to teach him how.

"I have no need of this lesson," Thorin said. "I know how to swim, thank you."

Silvermane looked doubtful. Water dripped from his antlers, somehow adding to his appearance of scepticism.

Perhaps the stag had noticed Thorin's hesitation whenever they encountered a body of water. Silvermane did not understand Thorin was not afraid of swimming, but of enchanted water that could put him into an endless sleep.

"An understandable mistake," Thorin said. "I forgive you." He shed his clothing and dived into the pool.

But he was not a strong swimmer; if the stag brought him to the waterfall pool again, he would not turn up his nose at a chance to improve his skill.

The swim abruptly reminded Thorin of what had befallen his cousin, Dwalin. Had his four companions reached Erebor safely? Had the relief party Thorin requested through Blain arrived in the Little Greenwood? They would have found his campsite by now. Had they determined he was missing? 

That night, after Thorin and Silvermane were back snug and safe in the tree house, Thorin heard a thin and distant howling, like that of wolves, but the howl was eerie and strange. Could it be wargs?

"Where the warg howls, there the orc prowls," Thorin said, recalling an old saying, and shivered.

* * *

Thorin had at first kept track of the days with pen and paper, but at some point had fallen out of the habit. He needed no calendar, however, to tell him summer was fading. The leaves on the trees were crisp and dry around the edges. With each passing day, Silvermane's antlers grew ever larger and more majestic, his neckmane thicker and more luxuriant.

"Who's a handsome stag?" Thorin said. "You are, Silvermane."

One fine, cool morning, they set out on a hunting and foraging trip, Thorin riding Silvermane as usual.

Thorin paid little attention to their route at first, until the air about them grew unpleasantly chill. The trees were twisted into tortured shapes, and the ground, broken and fissured, was blocked with huge drifts of rotting leaves.

"This does not look like a promising hunting ground, boy," Thorin said. "Unless you wish to dine on beetles."

Silvermane continued on for a few strides, then halted. His muscles tensed. He rotated his ears from side to side, and sniffed.

"What is it, boy?" Thorin said in a whisper.

Silvermane stood completely still. Thorin was as silent as he could be, until he could hear what the stag heard: a snuffling, whimpering sound.

Suddenly, Silvermane left the narrow path and leapt over a fallen tree. Thorin clung to Silvermane's back and somehow managed not to fall off. The stag bolted through oddly sticky undergrowth, and at last stopped. On the ground before them was a deer-sized white object.

Thorin slid off Silvermane, and for the first time used his light crystal out of doors. It rewarded him with a small, steady light. The object _was_ a deer, a red doe wrapped in a sticky mass of webs. He drew his dagger and cut the doe free.

Silvermane bent down and touched noses with the doe. The doe bleated, got up, and staggered weakly toward a track through nearby shrubs, where branches were broken as if something had been dragged through them.

Silvermane nosed Thorin hard on the shoulder. Thorin climbed on Silvermane's back – it was getting easier; he took a running start of a few steps, and leapt up – and they were off following the track, quickly outdistancing the doe.

They had traveled about a hundred yards when something hit the back of Thorin's head. All went dark.

* * *

Thorin came to on the ground. Above him were legs.

Closest were the stag's legs, Silvermane's hooves alarmingly near Thorin's face. Then other legs. Horrible huge insect legs, ending in claws.

Thorin got to his feet and pulled out his axe. Before him was an enormous spider, nearly as large as Silvermane. Thorin could see the hideous creature easily in the gloom, for Silvermane was radiant with fury.

"So the tales are true!" Thorin said.

The spider darted forward with shocking speed. Thorin swung his axe. A hacked off spider leg flew past him. Encouraged, Thorin set to, swinging his axe methodically. When the spider collapsed, Silvermane landed on its body with all four hooves. There was a disgusting squelching sound, and the spider moved no more.

Before Thorin could catch his breath, more spiders were all around them, three, four, five... The fight became frenzied. There was no time to think. Thorin swung his axe two-handed, aiming at spider legs, when he could aim at all.

At last only a single spider was left, one larger even than Silvermane. Thorin hewed three of its legs, but still it came on.

Silvermane lowered his head and charged, driving his antlers into the foul creature, stopping it at last.

Exhausted, Thorin sat down, but immediately stood again; the ground was covered with a pale ooze which stank.

The doe they had freed earlier caught up. It ran to a small web-covered bundle Thorin had overlooked in the fight. He half crawled to it, and with his dagger cut away the webs. A young fawn was inside. It appeared dead. They were too late.

Silvermane sniffed the fawn, then began to lick it, removing the foul webs.

"Stop, boy!" Thorin said. "The webs may be poisonous." 

Since Silvermane did not seem to think the situation hopeless, Thorin took heart. He cradled the cold fawn in his arms to warm it. With water from his waterskin, he washed its head, clearing its nose and mouth. Time passed. It may have been only minutes, but it seemed much, much longer. At last the fawn stirred. Thorin released it, and it shakily stood up. 

The fawn went to the doe and began to nurse. On the heels of the spider fight, the domestic scene struck Thorin as an anti-climax.

"We must get the doe and fawn away," Thorin said. "There could be more spiders about."

He glanced at the doe, and saw on her flank a healed wound. It was the deer he had shot on the banks of the River Running. 

"She lived!" Thorin said, vastly relieved.

But Silvermane looked at him sternly, and Thorin realised the doe's wound, healed though it might be, had made her easier prey for the spiders. 

"I am sorry," Thorin said to the doe.

When the fawn finished nursing, Thorin lifted it and placed it, short legs sprawling, on Silvermane's back, the fawn bleating shrilly until Silvermane and the doe made soft sounds to it.

Thorin looked about at the dead spiders, wondering if he should bury them, but decided the surrounding woods were already foul; bits of spiders everywhere would do the setting no harm.

They departed, Silvermane leading, the doe in the middle, Thorin on foot guarding the rear, until they reached lighter, brighter woods. There they parted from the doe and the fawn, and traveled back to the tree house.

Thorin shed his outer clothing as soon as they reached the top of the stairs. He and the stag were besmirched with the spiders' sticky ooze, and traces of webs were all over them as well.

Thorin heated water and thoroughly washed the stag with a damp cloth. He gave Silvermane two mushrooms dipped in salt, then took a bath himself. He gratefully put on the spare tunic he had made; he had the luxury of washing his dirty clothes in the morning. Too tired to prepare a meal, he ate half of a precious leaf cake. Silvermane lazily munched leaves outside the windows.

When he climbed into bed, Thorin could not sleep, still restive from the fight. He reviewed his actions over and over, considering what he should have done differently to vanquish the spiders with greater ease and style.

After half an hour of restlessness, Thorin got out of bed, and unpacked the overlarge harp. He tuned the strings, then seated himself on the bed. Since there was no one to sing a lullaby to him, he would sing one for himself.

As he played, Thorin's thoughts shifted from the details of the fight to its overall meaning. Was aiding Silvermane to defeat the fell creatures of Mirkwood the purpose of Thorin's possible quest? But how could a stag and a dwarf ever reach victory in such a vast territory?

Like a great cat, Silvermane sat on his hindquarters to listen to Thorin's playing. Forgetting his worries, Thorin smiled at the sight.

* * *

For the next two days, Thorin and Silvermane stuck to familiar hunting grounds, went to bed early, and slept late.

Three days after the spider fight, they visited the stream by the blackberry tree. The berries were gone now, eaten or withered. Silvermane grazed on blackberry leaves while Thorin fished. The trees arching overhead were turning red and gold; the air was brisk. Thorin was glad of his new cloak.

They were returning to the tree house, Thorin riding Silvermane as usual, when a large creature hurtled down from above. Thorin nearly panicked, until he saw the creature was not a spider, but a great grey owl, and the owl was not attacking; it was merely trying to settle on Silvermane's antlers.

The stag was having none of the owl, however. Silvermane tossed his head, dislodging the owl, then galloped at a frantic pace. Thorin clutched Silvermane's neck so he would not be thrown off.

"It's only an owl," Thorin shouted. "Stop, boy! Stop!"

Silvermane continued to run. The owl pursued them, circling in the air above. A rare shaft of sunlight gleamed on silver bands around the owl's legs.

Before Thorin could form a theory about the unusual decorations, the owl let out a terrific screech. Moments later, Thorin heard musical horns. Silvermane put on another burst of speed.

The horn calls were keeping up with them, not fading into the distance, so the horns belonged to a fast-moving party. Thorin looked behind, and spotted at least a dozen elven hunters on horseback.

Damn the owl! It was an elven scout!

Thorin bent low over Silvermane's back so he would not slow the stag down, and remembered the Elvenking's rule: no one was permitted to hunt white deer in Mirkwood, except for the elven royal house. Thorin was horrified at the thought Silvermane might be destined for the Elvenking's autumn feast.

Thorin risked letting go of Silvermane with one hand for a moment so he could turn and look back again. Two elven riders, both with long red hair, had gained on them. One held a shining bundle. The other rider reached for it, and they spread it out between them. It was a net of silver rope. The elven hunters did not mean to slay the white stag immediately, then, but to capture it alive.

Silvermane could perhaps outrun the horses; the stag must know the woods better than anyone. But they could not escape the elves for long. There could be other elves lying in wait in the woods ahead; the party behind them could be driving them toward a trap.

"Do not go home, boy!" Thorin said. "We must lose them first!"

To Thorin's relief, Silvermane did not head toward the tree house, but went in the opposite direction, leading the elves away from the refuge.

The owl, however, seemed unshakeable. Bouncing on the galloping stag's back, Thorin could not take aim at it with his bow, and he had also not forgotten it was forbidden to slay an owl.

They reached a narrow stream with steep banks. Instead of leaping over it, Silvermane leapt into it, Thorin clinging desperately to the stag's back. Water surged around Silvermane's flanks. A thick mist rose from the water, screening them.

Silvermane swam up the stream as silent as a fish. When the owl screeched again, it was some distance away. Silvermane climbed out of the water and entered dense foliage. Branches whipped against Thorin's legs. Silvermane halted abruptly beside a towering, half-dead tree, and plunged into a leaf pile, nearly throwing Thorin off. They slid down a steep, dark hole, dirt and leaves in Thorin's mouth and hair.

They were in the earth, in a lightless hollow beneath the tree. Had the elves or the owl scout seen them enter? Thorin would know soon enough.

The horns grew louder and closer. Horse hooves struck the ground above.

Silvermane's breathing was harsh with fear, his hide cold with sweat. He trembled. It was not the first time the white stag had been pursued by elven hunters, Thorin thought.

"Steady, boy," Thorin whispered. "We'll just lie quietly, and..."

Because of the net, Thorin knew the elves were searching for the white stag.

It belatedly occurred to Thorin the elves were undoubtedly also searching for him.

If he was found, the elves would make sure he left Mirkwood. Indeed, they would eject him from their realm with pleasure. All Thorin had to do was call out to the elves; he would quickly be re-united with his family, and back in the beauty and safety of Erebor.

But what would become of Silvermane? Could Thorin betray the stag, and live with himself afterward? He must make a choice, and make it now.

Slowly, the horns faded away.

When he could hear the horns no longer, Thorin said, "They're gone, boy. It should be safe to leave."

Silvermane let out a pathetic bleat.

Thorin brought out the light crystal to combat the surrounding darkness. He patted the stag's neck, and stroked it.

"There, there, my moss-loving friend," Thorin said. "You'll not be the centrepiece of anyone's feast, so long as I can help it."

Silvermane closed his great eyes and slumped against Thorin. The stag's clammy weight was an uncomfortable burden, but Thorin did not move away.

For the first time in many days, Thorin again wondered about Silvermane's origins. If Silvermane was an enchanted being, what had he been before? 

"You're too silly to have been a dwarf," Thorin said, thinking aloud. "Too willful to have been one wise in years. Too proud to have been a commoner. And you're much too affectionate to have been an elf."

Silvermane stopped trembling. Thorin patted the stag's neck again.

"You must have been a young prince of Men," Thorin said. "When I free you from enchantment, I expect half your kingdom in gratitude."

Silvermane snorted loudly and rudely into Thorin's face.

* * *

A week later Silvermane carried Thorin steadily up, past outcroppings of golden sandstone. Thorin suspected they were heading northwest, nearing the foothills of Mirkwood's mountains.

At first the outcroppings were low, less than a dozen feet, but gradually they increased in size until one reached sixty feet in height, and could be without much exaggeration called a cliff-face. Thorin dismounted, and went eagerly toward the golden sandstone like an old friend. It had been long since he had seen a generous expanse of bare rock.

Silvermane followed just as eagerly, rushing to the stone to lick a pale crystalline vein running through the rock face.

Thorin dug at the vein with a knife. It crumbled easily, and he tasted the powdery yield. Salt.

The narrow salt vein had receded from the tongues of many wild animals; the surrounding rock was scored by fangs, horns, and claws. To reach the salt, Silvermane had to hold his head at what looked to Thorin like an extremely uncomfortable angle.

On his belt, Thorin still had a bag of metal stakes to mark trees for felling. With the blunt edge of his axe, he hammered stakes partway into the rock above and below the salt, just enough to keep the stakes in position. When all the stakes were in place, he struck the stakes as hard as he could, driving them into the rock. The rock around the vein crumbled, exposing the salt anew.

"Have your fill, my friend," Thorin said, and patted the stag.

He no longer needed salt to train Silvermane, who followed his commands readily enough – those the stag agreed with, at any rate. He sat down on a rock to wait.

When Silvermane finished, he lifted his head and trumpeted his harsh roar.

A red doe appeared out of the trees, so quickly she must have already been there, hidden. She was followed by two more does. Glancing dubiously at Thorin, the does tentatively approached the salt vein, but were soon industriously licking it, short tails flapping and ears twitching. Silvermane stood near them, keeping a lookout.

Thorin had almost started to doze when he heard another harsh bellow in the woods, like Silvermane's, but not as deep.

A few minutes later, a red stag rushed out of the trees. When it saw Silvermane, it bowed its head, as if considering charging.

"Behave," Thorin said. "There's plenty of salt for everyone."

Slowly, as if trying not to alarm the red stag, Silvermane moved away from the does, came to Thorin, and lay on the rocky ground beside him.

The red stag bellowed again. Thorin had heard donkeys more musical, and wondered how much more braying was required before the red stag approached the salt lick.

But salt, it turned out, was not on the red stag's mind; it mounted one of the does. Thorin was affronted. Surely Silvermane had precedence over the newcomer. But Silvermane showed no sign of being perturbed; instead, he looked at Thorin, as if to make sure Thorin was paying attention to the red stag's occupation.

Thorin flushed, recalling the first time they had visited the waterfall pool, when Silvermane had believed Thorin to be ignorant of swimming.

"I have no need of this lesson," Thorin said.

Silvermane looked at him with what seemed to be doubt.

"I have read a book on it," Thorin said, a trace smugly. "It had illustrations."

The book had been hidden, and therefore irresistible.

Dwalin had found the book a few years earlier in Oin's library. It was unpromisingly titled _Marital Maladies And Their Remedies_ , but Dwalin discovered it contained drawings, looked at them quickly, and reported back to Thorin.

Thorin had greater access to Oin's chambers than Dwalin, so, when Thorin found the book, he had not merely glanced at the illustrations, but managed to read the book from cover to cover over the course of two weeks.

The red stag mounted another doe. Silvermane watched placidly.

"Don't you have a mate, boy?" Thorin asked. "Or are none here good enough for you?" 

Silvermane's eyes turned bluer and darker. He let out a low plaintive bleat.

"My apologies," Thorin said. "I should not have said that." He had a sudden thought. "Did you have a mate, but lost her? To spiders, perhaps?"

Silvermane got up and roared so loudly all the deer, red stag included, scrambled back into the trees.

"I'm sorry, Silvermane," Thorin said. "I know nothing, really. I have only read about it in a book."

Thorin packed up a supply of salt for his and Silvermane's use, and climbed onto Silvermane's back. But Silvermane did not turn toward home, instead ascending along the cliff. Although the terrain was hidden by trees, Thorin sensed they were steadily conquering a steep fell, and knew for certain they were in the highlands of Mirkwood, near its central mountains. It was not an area he was eager to explore; he had heard even Mirkwood's elves avoided it.

An hour later they reached a clearing, from which Thorin could see further into the forest than he ever had before. Almost he thought he could see blue shadows of mountains to his right, the Misty Mountains to the west of Mirkwood.

His eyes were drawn to a dark line that cut across the forest ahead, too straight for a river or anything natural.

"It's the Old Forest Road!" Thorin said, and scratched Silvermane's neck. "How I would love to walk upon it. Who would have thought it would have endured, after all these years."

Thorin had seen no sign along the River Running of the great road's eastern terminus. He had not expected to; no dwarf had reported doing so, during decades of logging. But it seemed some of the road had survived. 

Beyond the faint line of the ancient road, away to the south, a great hill or mountain swelled up from the dark carpet of trees. The hill was too far away to make out, a hundred miles at least, but suddenly it became clear in Thorin's eyes: a mound covered with blasted trees, and crowned with ragged battlements. 

A dread fell on Thorin. He sensed the horrible place was somehow connected to Silvermane, even perhaps to the stag's possible enchanted state. What had Blain said? Something about a dark sorcerer bringing blight to the forest, cursing it...

Silvermane bleated low, in distress.

"Yes, my friend," Thorin said. "It is time to go home."

* * *

Thorin woke in the dark.

In Erebor, the sunless dawn was heralded by a single blow on a silver gong. In Mirkwood, the sun's rising was accompanied by songbirds in the tree boughs above. There had not been a single peep, so dawn had not yet come. Why then was he awake?

A stag nose poked his face.

That was why. 

Thorin rose from the warm bed reluctantly. A skin of ice covered the water in Silvermane's stone bowl. Thorin was still plodding through his morning routine when he was nearly knocked over by Silvermane, who had again used his nose to poke Thorin, this time on the back.

"What?" Thorin said, exasperated. "If you want me to make the weather warmer, I can't."

Silvermane galloped near silently down the stairs.

Thorin dressed warmly, then followed. Leaves were rustling, as if being splashed by rain. _Plop. Plop._

Thorin found Silvermane at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him.

At that moment, a small hard object landed on Thorin's head. He took out his light crystal, and looked around.

The beech trees were raining nuts. Birds began to sing.

In the slowly growing light, Thorin saw forest animals everywhere, eagerly dining on the nuts: squirrels, gerbils, skunks, birds of all kinds, rabbits, and red deer. Silvermane joined in the feast.

Thorin slowly climbed on the stag's back; if he was riding Silvermane, the forest animals would most likely take no notice of him.

Many of the beechnuts carpeting the ground had burst open. Thorin vaguely recalled some varieties of nuts ripened and fell after a frost.

After half an hour, Thorin slid off Silvermane, and tried a beechnut. It was slightly bitter, but Thorin knew roasting would improve its flavour, and also make it more digestible. As children, he and Dwalin had once eaten many raw nuts and developed terrible stomach aches.

In their raw form, the nuts would make excellent winter fodder for Silvermane. During the next two weeks, Thorin filled every spare container: sacks, baskets, empty wine bottles, and an old chest.

The cold snap persisted. There were longer and longer spells of rain. Wind tore red and gold leaves from the trees. Silvermane's breath steamed in the cold air, inspiring Thorin to call the stag _Cloudyhead_. Thorin began to bank a fire in the hearth in the evenings. Silvermane, who had continued to sleep by Thorin's bed, took to sleeping next to the small fire.

The stag's distance from the bed was only fifteen feet, but Thorin found it unexpectedly troubling, and sometimes woke in the night, worried about Silvermane's whereabouts. When he saw the stag's antlers outlined against the glow of the hearth, he promptly returned to sleep.

Thorin woke one morning to find snow had fallen, filtering down from the treetops and through the open windows. It was a light snowfall and quickly melted, but it was sobering. Thorin had survived in the forest so far, but could he and the stag survive a winter?

An old saying came to him, and he spoke the words aloud to Silvermane.

_When winter first begins to bite, and stones crack in the frosty night, when pools are black and trees are bare, 'tis evil in the Wild to fare._


	4. The Battle

A week later, while they were out on a long hunting trip, Silvermane sniffed the air, let out a frantic bleat, and galloped forward. Thorin was used to the stag determining their destination, so he made no objection, and held on.

Half an hour later they arrived at the bloody remains of a red stag.

Silvermane was greatly agitated, plunging up and down, pawing the ground, and snorting.

"I did not slay this animal," Thorin said angrily, before understanding Silvermane had brought him here not to apportion blame, but for interpretation.

Thorin's senses were inferior to the stag's, except for one: sight. The stag had keener vision than Thorin at night, but not during the day – even the dim light that passed for day in Mirkwood. Thorin leapt down and examined the dreadful carcass.

"It was killed two days ago, if I read the signs right," Thorin said. "By a beast with great jaws."

Bears, perhaps? Thorin had seen bear tracks only once before, and not fresh. He studied the prints again, and at last said, "Wolves. But the paw marks are too large. It must be wargs, then. At least two of them. One set of tracks is much bigger than the other."

Silvermane continued to stare mournfully at the slain stag, until Thorin had an idea. He gathered stones of similar size and shape, and, labouring for an hour, built a cairn over the deer. When he finished, Silvermane was noticeably calmer, and snuffled Thorin's hand in gratitude.

They returned to the tree house. The night was even colder than the one before, so Thorin covered Silvermane with a blanket after the stag lay by the hearth.

When Thorin woke in the morning, the blanket remained, but Silvermane was gone.

* * *

Thorin could go in search of the stag – he knew how to find places they had visited many times: the waterfall pool, the blackberry-covered tree – but did not think Silvermane would be at any of them. The stag must have gone in pursuit of the wargs.

While Thorin knew Silvermane was brave and resourceful, he was worried – and more than a little disappointed – the stag had not thought fit to include him. An anxious day passed slowly.

When the second day dawned, sharp and cold, and Silvermane had still not returned, Thorin considered the situation sensibly instead of stewing in his fears.

The wargs had a one- or two-day's start. Perhaps Silvermane was merely tracking the beasts, to discover their probable location. If Thorin was right, then Silvermane would return for Thorin, and expect Thorin to be ready to join in the hunt.

Thorin sharpened his axe and his dagger, and stocked his quiver with arrows. He filled the waterskins and rolled up an extra cloak. He tucked the light crystal into a pocket. Finally, he packed food that would stay wholesome for a few days.

He could not bring dried meat; the wargs would most likely smell it. This limited him to nuts, which would not be enough if the weather turned foul and their return was delayed. It could snow again. After a brief hesitation, Thorin packed the remaining leaf cakes, which he had been saving for his eventual journey out of the forest.

Late that afternoon, Silvermane returned and stamped his hooves impatiently at the foot of the tree. Thorin joyfully slung on his weapons and supplies, and descended the stairs. 

"I'm glad to see you, my friend," Thorin said.

He was so relieved he nearly kissed the stag's nose, but settled for scratching Silvermane between the eyes, then hoisted himself easily onto Silvermane's back, even with the load he carried. Silvermane snorted a greeting, and was quickly moving at a steady pace that promised many miles ahead.

* * *

On the first day of their warg hunt, Silvermane frequently halted to sniff the ground. That night, Silvermane found a snug space under a fir tree. Its branches swept the ground, making a sort of cave, and they slept on a floor of dry, sweet-smelling needles. On the second day, the stag was surer of the trail, and settled into a rapid canter. They slept beneath the spreading roots of a massive fallen ash.

On the third day, Silvermane's pace increased almost to a gallop. Thorin loosened the axe in his belt. Their quarry was near. 

After months in Mirkwood, Thorin could discern the time of day from the nature of the light struggling through the forest canopy. By the weak gold light currently visible, he concluded it was sunset.

Silvermane halted, and stood unnaturally still, as if turned to stone. Thorin looked about them, and saw to the left a red glow. A watch fire? It made no sense. Wargs could not build fires.

Something howled, horribly near.

Silvermane sprang toward the red light. Before Thorin had time to draw breath, they were close enough to see the fire's flames and the creatures gathered around it.

Three wargs paced around the fire, and on the ground sat two orcs.

Orcs! Thorin had not detected them at the site of the deer's slaughter. But there was no time to dwell on that. They were the first orcs Thorin had seen, and were much larger than orcs had a right to be. 

Orcs from the Misty Mountains – for surely that was where these orcs hailed from – were said to be smaller than dwarves. But one orc was man-high, the other as tall as Thorin. Their eyes were pale and bulbous, like those of foul insects found in pits. Thorin could not discern if what covered them was shabby armour or just their filthy hides.

Upon seeing the ancient enemy of his kin, Thorin's ears buzzed and roared. He kicked Silvermane's sides to urge the stag forward, as if the stag was a lazy pony – and instantly regretted it. Silvermane responded with enthusiasm. Thorin was going faster than he ever had in his life. Only Silvermane's antlers screened Thorin's face from being whipped bloody by branches.

"Stop!" Thorin shouted. "Halt, boy!"

Thorin had never practised fighting from horseback – no dwarf fought that way by preference – much less stag-back. He needed to dismount to fight.

When they saw Thorin and Silvermane, the pair of orcs howled hideously. Each orc leapt onto a warg's back. They carried long, cruel pikes, and they would have other weapons: knives, darts, their filthy teeth.

"Stop!" Thorin shouted again.

Too late. Silvermane leapt over the fire into the midst of the wargs.

Dimly, through a haze of rage and fear, Thorin perceived the larger orc was within his reach, on his right. Silvermane reared, bringing Thorin to the orc's level. Thorin hewed at the orc with his axe. Silvermane raked the orc's warg-mount with his antlers. 

Silvermane spun around and reared again, bringing the second orc and warg within Thorin's range. Thorin slashed the warg with his dagger left-handed, swung his axe at the orc right-handed, and the second and final orc was down.

Silvermane charged the third, riderless warg head on, piercing its throat with his antlers. The impact nearly threw Thorin off and over the stag's head.

Bare minutes had passed, and their enemies were on the ground.

Still in the grip of battle, Thorin leapt down from Silvermane's back, and slit their enemies' throats with his dagger, making sure they were dead – except for the second orc, whose head had been cut clean off by his axe. When Thorin stood back, Silvermane jubilantly trampled their enemies. Dark blood coated the stag's horns and hooves, and blood had spattered his white hide.

The same joyous triumph rushed through Thorin. It was his first battle victory; it seemed important in a way the spider fight had not. The spiders were mindless, more disgusting than frightening. And perhaps it was also the blood of the orcs and the wargs that changed the nature of the battle; the spiders had had only a pale oozing liquid.

Thorin had been ignorant of how to fight mounted, but Silvermane knew, as if the stag had been born to battle. With every twist and leap, Silvermane had given Thorin another target.

"Good boy," Thorin said.

The words were inadequate as thanks; fortunately, Thorin's voice had failed him, and all that had come out was a croak. He could try again.

"Congratulations on your victory, guardian of the forest," Thorin said in a steady enough voice. 

Thorin bowed low, straightening up when Silvermane nuzzled his shoulder. He embraced the stag about the neck.

"I needed this lesson," Thorin said. "You are a good teacher, Silvermane."

All that remained was to clean up the mess.

The corpses were decaying rapidly, already putrid as if many days had passed. Was it always thus with servants of the Enemy? Thorin was loathe to take a souvenir of battle, even one of the pikes. The bodies were too many to bury; Thorin would have to burn them.

The orcs' camp fire had somehow survived the battle. Nearby was a great pile of firewood, young trees wastefully felled and chopped up by the orcs. Thorin fed the fire with wood so it would not go out. In the clearing around the fire, he tried to scrape a shallow pit with an orc pike.

"I could use some help," Thorin said, breathing hard.

Silvermane ploughed the earth with his antlers, and soon the pit was ready. Thorin piled dry brush in the pit, then small pieces of wood, and finally the rest of the newly-cut logs. Thorin then dragged the orcs into the pit, but he could not move the wargs; they were far too heavy. Silvermane came to Thorin's aid again. As if his antlers were a broom and the wargs mere dirt, Silvermane swept the wargs into the pit.

Using coals from the orcs' camp fire, Thorin set the fuel alight. The stench of the burning was dreadful. In silent agreement, Thorin and Silvermane moved upwind.

The stag was not alarmed by the fire, but watched it calmly. Remembering how Silvermane had attacked the small fish-roasting fire, Thorin smiled, and patted Silvermane's neck.

Abruptly, Thorin's body shook violently. He put on his extra cloak, but it did not hinder the trembling. The warm glow of battle was gone, leaving behind cold exhaustion. It was another freezing night, but Thorin could not seek shelter yet. The fire could not be left unattended. When it burned low, he would have to smother any remaining embers with earth.

Snow began to fall, at first lightly.

Thorin was relieved, despite the increased cold. The snow would put out the fire eventually, so he would not have to safeguard it. They could leave to seek shelter for the night.

Thorin wanted that shelter to be far away from the scene of slaughter. The orcs and wargs they had killed might not be alone in the area; others might come to investigate the burning. But they were a three-day journey from the tree house, perhaps four because of the snow, which was now falling heavily.

"We will need something better than a tree's boughs for shelter tonight," Thorin said. "Can you find us a hollow tree, friend?"

Thorin began to clamber aboard Silvermane – he was too weary to be graceful – when he saw a dark mark on the stag's left flank. When he probed the mark, Silvermane shied away from him, the first time the stag had done so.

"Easy, boy," Thorin said.

Taking out the crystal, he examined the mark, and found it was a bloody slash – from an orc pike, no doubt. _Curse my beard!_ Thorin swore in Dwarvish. He had not adequately protected his mount during battle; Silvermane had paid for his inexperience. The slash did not look deep, but in the dim light Thorin could not be sure.

"You are wounded, friend," Thorin said. "I cannot ride you. You will have to lead me."

* * *

At night, hungry and tired, Thorin could see nothing but the faint radiance of the stag before him. He lost track of time; it seemed he had been plodding through the snow and darkness for hours.

Thorin had traveled through snow before: on the peak of the Lonely Mountain, in daylight, while well-fed and warmly dressed, and following a straight dwarven path. This was different. With each step, Thorin sank deep into the snow, but it seemed Silvermane floated over it, the stag's hooves leaving no mark, which struck Thorin as miserably unfair.

For the first time in months, the anxious fear of the forest returned, and Thorin saw dark visions: he would fall to the ground, be buried in snow, and the stag would continue on without him. 

Thorin stumbled and fell to his knees. Amid the howling wind and freezing air, stillness was bliss.

There was a loud snort in Thorin's ear. Silvermane was pawing with his forefeet, ordering Thorin to get up.

When Thorin got to his feet, he saw a house or a cave ahead.

He feared it was another dream, but he followed the stag toward the building, and promptly fell into a ditch. He climbed out of the ditch, and found Silvermane waiting.

Thorin could now see the building more clearly, and was not encouraged. Instead of a door, there was a gaping hole in one wall. If the building was in ruins, it would be a poor shelter. Nevertheless, any protection from the snow would help.

The hole was large enough to admit Silvermane; Thorin followed the stag in. Inside the structure, the wind blessedly died. Thorin remembered his crystal and held it up.

The interior was one large room, with the rubble of inner walls here and there. The roof, supported by massive timbers, appeared sound enough. The floor was of stone and in good repair. Thorin looked for something to sleep on – anything that would keep them off the cold stone floor. 

Silvermane circled the room, then leapt easily onto a wooden platform, so large Thorin had not noticed it, taking it for part of the structure. The platform was shoulder height, and in Thorin's exhausted state he made heavy weather of scaling it.

Silvermane lay down, wisely choosing the platform's centre.

Remembering the stag's wound, Thorin held the crystal over Silvermane's left flank. The dark slash seemed smaller than he remembered. He touched it lightly, and Silvermane bore the touch. The wound was dry and already healing.

"You are enchanted in more ways than one, friend," Thorin said.

Thorin opened a bag of beechnuts for Silvermane, and ate half a leaf cake for himself. The cakes always gave him a burst of energy, but now, when Thorin was half-frozen and wet, the food warmed him like a fire within.

Silvermane poked Thorin in the chest with his nose, and looked at Thorin expectantly. It took Thorin a moment to understand: the stag was offering life-saving warmth. Or asking for it. Or both.

Thorin lay down beside Silvermane, his back against the stag's chest. The stag curled around him like a great cat. Thorin fell asleep to the loud thump of Silvermane's steady heart.

* * *

When Thorin woke, he was stiff and sore all over from the battle, and from the long cold journey. But through the opening in the wall light streamed, the brightest Thorin could remember seeing since entering Mirkwood. He had to investigate.

Silvermane rose with him, and they went out together.

The house they had sheltered in stood in a forest clearing five hundred feet across, open to the sky. Snow fell from steel-coloured clouds, and yet the hidden sun, after the gloom of Mirkwood, seemed fierce to Thorin. He shielded his eyes with the hood of his cloak.

He waded through knee-deep snow to examine the exterior of the house. It had a high peaked sod roof, with eaves reaching nearly to the ground. No wonder the house had first looked like a cave. There were curious protrusions on the roof, like half-finished chimneys. 

Back inside, Thorin inspected the interior. The building was a type common among men, but which Thorin had never entered before, a home and barn combined into one.

What Thorin had taken the night before to be damaged interior walls were low fences surrounding animal pens. While to dwarven eyes the barn house looked rustic, almost crude, Thorin acknowledged it was sensible in Mirkwood, since it protected tame animals from the wild beasts of the forest.

The sturdy exterior stone walls were supported by timbers. Above the ground floor was a loft, where the inhabitants would have made their beds. But the loft was long gone; nothing remained but a few sagging boards.

The interior animal pens were not the only notable feature. The scale of the house was strangely enormous.

The platform Thorin and Silvermane had slept on was in fact a huge table. Overturned benches matched it in size, and a wooden tankard Thorin found on the floor was almost large enough to cover his head completely. The folk who had once lived here must have been eight feet in height, taller even than elves.

Thorin checked Silvermane's flank, and found the wound was entirely closed. Silvermane gave him a friendly nose poke, then went outdoors, trotting across the snow to nearby fir trees to eat (with a dejected air) pine needles. Thorin had leaf cakes to dine on, and was thankful for them; he could take refuge in the barn house as long as snow fell.

What he needed was a blazing fire, and thawed water to drink. He could melt snow, but a house this remote would have a well. He searched outside until he found it. Its cover was lost, and there was no bucket, but Thorin had brought rope. The large wooden tankard he had found served as a pail.

The well was luckily deep enough that its water had not frozen. Thorin offered a full tankard to Silvermane's superior judgement, who pronounced the water wholesome by drinking it.

Any nearby firewood would be too sodden to burn, so Thorin went back indoors and cut up stray boards with his axe. Some of the fencing surrounding an animal pen made a satisfactory pile of wood.

He cleaned the hearth of old fallen birds' nests and built a fire, then moved on to his next major concern, the enormous hole in the exterior wall.

He had already determined it was not a random hole, but an oversized entrance with double doors, both of which were flat on the floor. If he hauled the doors up, he might be able to get them back onto their hinges, but the doors were too heavy for Thorin to move alone.

Thorin looped rope into a rough harness for Silvermane, threw the rope end over a ceiling beam, and attached the rope to the left door. Silvermane easily pulled the door upright, then Thorin sweated and heaved the door into position. Stacking two of the large benches, he climbed up to slide pins into the hinges.

Once in place, the left door would not move – it was badly warped – and would have to remain closed, but the right door was large enough on its own to permit Silvermane to enter and exit.

By the time Thorin and Silvermane finished the door restoration project, the sky was utterly dark, and snow still fell. But with the doors closed, and more wood on the fire, the barn house quickly warmed up. There were only four windows, tall and narrow, stout shutters still intact.

Thorin gave Silvermane the rest of the beechnuts, then ate half a leaf cake. Their dinner done, Thorin spread a blanket on top of the enormous table. The stag lay upon it and contentedly faced the glowing hearth.

They were settled for sleep when Thorin heard a rap on the door.

Silvermane seemed at ease, so whatever was at the door must not smell like an enemy. Somewhat heartened, Thorin opened the door, and saw no one. He was about to close the door when he heard a rasping noise near his feet, and looked down to find the grey owl with silver bands about its legs.

The owl lay flat upon the stoop, ice on its wings. It looked altogether insensible. It must have seen the smoke from their fire, which reminded Thorin anything in the forest could see it as well, but he was too tired to worry about it.

The owl was half as large as Thorin, but when he picked it up it turned out to be astonishingly light. He carried the owl inside and set it down by the fire.

Silvermane opened his eyes just enough to look suspiciously at the owl.

"We have a guest," Thorin said. "A rather unwell guest, so I think we can trust it not to misbehave for the time being."

* * *

In the morning, the owl preened its feathers thoroughly, and was soon back to its normal sleek appearance.

Thorin opened the door and tried to look stern.

"You must go," Thorin said to the owl. "I'm sorry, but we cannot trust you not to betray us to the elves."

The owl gazed at Thorin, then at Silvermane. Silvermane glared back. The owl bobbed its head, then flew out the door. Thorin shut the door firmly behind it.

Two hours later, Thorin was chopping wood into kindling when he heard a rap on the door again.

When he opened it, the owl was sitting on the threshold. Before it were two plump, dead pheasants.

"Ah." Thorin picked up the game birds. "Come in."

The owl settled by the fire, ignoring Silvermane's loud snort. Thorin plucked and dressed the pheasants, roasted them over the fire, and greedily ate them both. He offered a portion to the owl, which rejected it; apparently the owl preferred its meals raw.

"I have a mind to make this our winter home," Thorin said. "What say you?"

Silvermane snorted complainingly; if the stag could talk, he would no doubt be pointing out his current diet consisted chiefly of pine needles.

"When the snowstorm has passed, we'll go back to the tree house and pick up supplies," Thorin said. "Including the beechnuts we put away for the winter."

The next day, the barn house yielded up another secret, a stone-lined food cellar, which contained no food, but many tools. It was the first sign the former occupants had left knowing their absence would be a long one; they must have stowed the tools in the cellar to preserve them. 

Several items were too oversized to be of use, including an axe with a handle as long as Thorin was tall, and a wheelbarrow big enough to carry two men.

The remaining tools were for wool working: a pair of shears, which resembled tongs with razor-sharp ends, and stiff wire brushes for carding wool. Thorin looked for leather-working tools, but found none. There were also huge wooden screens, possibly for threshing grain, and curious horseshoes which attached with clamps instead of nails.

There were also a great many useful objects found in any home: buckets, tubs, pots, pans. All were nearly three times the size Thorin was accustomed to.

An enormous pail became Silvermane's new water bucket, replacing the smaller tankard. The hinges from an old box, once Thorin attached them to a window shutter, permitted the owl to exit and enter easily without the loss of too much interior heat.

* * *

Three days later, Thorin and Silvermane set out for the tree house. It was the first time Thorin had ridden Silvermane since their battle against the orcs and wargs.

The journey took five days, but did not seem arduous. Silvermane stepped lightly over the snow, and they spent the nights in hollow trees and other natural shelters. Thorin stayed comfortable with the stag to keep him warm.

At the tree house, Thorin packed up everything that was both useful and small: bedclothes, wine, extra clothing, the twin swords, the harp, arrows, a few dishes, and fishing equipment. He justified taking the bathing tub by packing it with beechnuts. He left behind the jewellery, the bulky mattress, and the bow.

Thorin uncovered the mirror to have a look at himself. His beard was at last coming in properly. In another year, it might be long enough to ornament. He had also grown taller; his tunic was two inches shorter on him.

They spent one night at the tree house. Even with a fire in the small hearth, it was terribly cold, and Thorin did not object when the stag got on the bed.

He did not expect Silvermane to carry the substantial load he had assembled, so he built a rough wooden sleigh, and wove a harness out of rope, padded with cloth. Thankfully, the stag did not object to the harness, possibly because beechnuts were a large percentage of the baggage. Thorin was on foot most of the journey; he frequently had to push while Silvermane pulled to get the sleigh over obstacles.

Thorin slept well in the open each night, his head pillowed on Silvermane. It was easy to be at peace knowing a warm hearth waited for them.

The grey owl was roosting on the barn house roof when they returned. It flew off and came back an hour later with a fat trout, and a branch covered with small red berries.

"Very well, Owl," Thorin said. "You may stay until it thaws."

Silvermane was too busy eating berries to make a remark.


	5. The Men-i-Naugrim

The tales Thorin had heard of folk falling under an enchantment in Mirkwood did not apply, he was sure, to finding oneself contentedly making beeswax candles.

It came about this way. After the supply trip to the tree house, Thorin climbed up onto the barn house's sod roof to make sure it was sound. While up there, he looked all around, but low winter clouds obscured his view of the surrounding woods and whatever lay beyond.

On the roof were a dozen wooden boxes, each about waist high, which Thorin had earlier taken for unfinished chimneys. On the side of each box was a door. Opening one revealed a mass of gigantic humming bees. He hastily (but gently) shut the door, and nearly leapt down from the roof, but managed to gather the courage to examine the other boxes. Of the dozen, only one was occupied; the rest were full of honeycombs. The honey was long gone, but the wax remained.

The boxes could be completely dismantled, so removing the wax was easy. Candle-making occupied Thorin for three evenings.

Moving into the barn house gave Thorin many new tasks in addition to candle-making, most of them agreeable.

He shovelled snowdrifts to unblock the doors and windows. He cleared saplings not too deeply buried in snow from the meadow surrounding the house, storing the wood under the eaves to season for firewood. He cut up a recently fallen fir tree into fresh boards, using them to rebuild the loft, which he planned to use for storage, but Owl quickly took possession of the space.

The sleigh had served him and Silvermane well, but had no further purpose; pushing and pulling the sleigh through the forest's uneven terrain had been a monumental chore. With regret, Thorin took the sleigh apart for firewood.

He next dismantled the outsized benches and rebuilt them as a table and chairs in dwarven size, although he kept the enormous table as a sleeping platform. He also left alone an attractively carved wooden chair, as oversized as the other furnishings. The seat functioned as a high worktable, perfect for finicky tasks such as sharpening his dagger.

One night, when there was a hard freeze, squirrels tried to move into the barn house. After seeing Owl, the squirrels left in a hurry. Two distant relations remained, the same variety of red-furred gerbils Thorin had encountered months ago. 

The two gerbils set up housekeeping in an old animal pen, so they were out of Thorin's way. Thorin caught Owl looking at them once or twice, but the gerbils remained unmolested. Thorin named the gerbils Nari and Nali. The offspring they soon both produced proved he had erred in identifying them as male.

The barn house had no shortage of new residents. Thorin found half-wild chickens by the well, and enticed them into a pen indoors with the help of beechnuts. They made an incredible amount of noise at times, and were apt to roost in inconvenient locations, but the occasional egg was a welcome addition to his diet.

He found stones to fill gaps in the hearth, and built a crude but effective oven on one side of it. But the barn house modification Thorin was proudest of was a door lever Silvermane could operate, so the stag could come and go as he wished. Silvermane pushed the lever with his nose to open the door; a weight closed the door afterward.

A stone house on the ground was much more to Thorin's taste than an airy house in the trees. The barn house felt like a home in a way the tree house could not, and Thorin grew increasingly fond and proud of it.

* * *

Thorin woke suddenly. Silvermane was up and poking him in the chest.

"Mmph," Thorin said. The chickens were still silent, so it was not yet dawn. "Too early."

Silvermane opened the door and went out. Thorin, used to the stag's whims, dressed quickly, picked up the light crystal, and followed the stag outside.

The sky above was finally clear, and a bright swath of stars glittered overhead. Thorin stopped to admire them.

The light crystal in Thorin's hand unexpectedly brightened, pulsing with light, as if glad to be under the stars. Interesting, but hardly worth getting out of bed on a cold winter night.

Silvermane faced the surrounding forest, as if waiting for someone or something. Thorin tried to wait patiently, but after a few minutes his patience was badly frayed by the cold. He was about to go back inside when he saw something on the edge of the meadow.

It was the size of a boulder. Thorin placed one hand on Silvermane to reassure them both, and tried to make out what it was.

The boulder moved. Thorin jumped, but remained at Silvermane's side.

Silvermane made a soft nickering sound. The boulder advanced. There were five in all, slowly coming closer. The boulders were lumpy and misshapen, grey in colour, about chest high.

A boulder stopped and said, "Baa."

The boulders were sheep, whose wool had not been cut for years, until they were round grey balls of matted fleece.

Thorin smiled, deeply relieved. "Here, sheep!" he called.

The five sheep turned and ran back into the woods. Silvermane snorted. 

Knowing the stag had things well in hand, Thorin went back inside to put wood on the fire. Once it was blazing, he sat by the hearth, and waited.

Ten minutes later, Silvermane opened the door and entered, followed by the five sheep. With some encouragement from the stag, the sheep ran into a pen.

Thorin lit the precious oil lantern, deeming the situation called for its bright, steady light, and marvelled at the thick wool on the sheep. He would have to shear it off; it looked horrendously uncomfortable, and he had thought of a use for it. He did not have the skill to weave anything from the resulting wool, but the fleece would make a fine mattress.

The sun was just rising, so it was too dark for shearing, even with aid of the oil lamp. Thorin ate breakfast, filled water pails for the sheep, and waited for the light.

Two hours after sunrise, he fetched the shears (he had cleaned and sharpened them at the time of finding them), and entered the pen. He had never sheared a sheep, but he had seen it done once in a market in Dale, and thought he had the idea of it.

He rolled the smallest sheep onto its back, the sheep's head resting against his thighs. The sheep instantly uttered bloodcurdling bleats, as if it expected to be murdered. The other sheep joined in with a will. Thorin leapt backward so quickly he fell over the pen fence.

Silvermane put his head over the fence and made a soft noise. The sheep were immediately silent.

Badly shaken, Thorin examined the shears. He did not have the experience to wield the sharp blades safely on flailing sheep; perhaps no one did on sheep with such overgrown coats.

He spent an hour carving wooden combs that slipped over each blade, the wooden teeth guarding the blades so they would not touch skin, but only trim wool. Satisfied with the shears, Thorin returned to the pen and rolled another sheep onto its back. 

This time, the noise was even worse. Thorin dropped the shears and covered his ears. Silvermane leapt into the pen and put his nose to the sheep's nose; the sheep was blessedly quiet.

"Look, it's your uncle stag," Thorin said with desperate cheerfulness. "Hush now."

* * *

Shearing the five sheep took two days, and produced what Thorin estimated to be well over a hundred pounds of wool. At the end of it, Thorin was exhausted, and had a new respect for shepherds.

His shearing job had been complicated by his intention to not shear the wool too closely; it was after all still winter.

But his labour was just beginning. Next, he washed the wool, pelt by pelt, soaking it in near-boiling water. It produced a fearful stink; even Silvermane fled.

It was a clear day, so Thorin moved his wool cleaning operation out of doors. He built wood frames for the large wooden screens he had found earlier – at last realising what they were for – spread the wet wool on them, and let the wool dry in the sun.

After two days of wool drying, he carded the wool, not well enough for spinning, but enough to make the wool as fluffy as possible. It took two weeks, since he had many other daily chores. At last the wool was ready. He sewed two linen sheets together, stuffed the wool inside, sewed the opening shut, and hauled his creation onto the sleeping platform, cursing himself for not thinking to assemble the mattress there.

When Thorin went to bed that night, however, he decided the effort had been worth it. The billowy mattress was so warm he needed only a single blanket, not the blanket plus cloak he had been sleeping under.

The stag lay down beside Thorin on the mattress, and looked inordinately pleased.

"Many thanks to you, Uncle Stag." Thorin smiled, and settled his head on Silvermane's chest.

* * *

Owl continued to bring fish and game birds to Thorin, giving Thorin opportunities to work on the barn house. In the evenings, Owl roosted by the fire, gerbils scampering about its feet. Silvermane took the sheep out foraging by day, even in the snow. There was quite a crowd around the hearth in the evenings.

Eventually Thorin caught up on his chores, and could turn his hands to more frivolous tasks. 

He had found a large chessboard in the cellar, but several chess pieces were missing. He settled by the fire to carve replacements. The surviving pieces were all based on forest animals – squirrels, weasels, bears – so Thorin continued the theme, carving a stag to replace the missing white king, an owl to replace a black bishop, and gerbils to replace missing pawns.

Although Thorin had ceased to track the days, he sensed the winter solstice was fast approaching. Thorin celebrated by playing the overlarge harp. As before, Silvermane sat on his haunches to listen, again reminding Thorin of a great cat, and again making Thorin laugh. 

While Thorin played, Silvermane tried to lay his head on Thorin's lap, and came dangerously close to snagging his antlers in the harp strings. For a moment, Thorin laughed too hard to play. Not at all put out by Thorin's merriment at his expense, the stag contented himself with lying on the bed to listen.

* * *

It rained, melting much of the snow. It was still cold, the sun still hidden behind clouds, but grass sprang up all over the meadow, growing inches a day. Nearly as fast as the grass grew, the sheep and Silvermane ate it.

With the snow nearly gone, Thorin found a flattened fence of wooden stakes surrounding the meadow; he set to work rebuilding it, along with a sturdy gate, so the sheep would have a protected area to graze.

By the time Thorin finished the fence, the weather was calm enough to go hunting. Owl went with them, perched on Silvermane's antlers.

Thorin let Silvermane pick their destination, and was not surprised when it turned out to be a large bush covered with small, round, red berries. Thorin tried a berry and found it mealy and sour, but Silvermane consumed them greedily. Thorin fished in a nearby stream and caught nothing; Owl was more successful and returned with game birds.

* * *

The clear weather continued. When it had held for a week, Thorin believed a longer trip could be risked. Their last lengthy excursion had been the supply trip to the tree house, and he was restless.

"Silvermane, I would like to see the Old Forest Road."

Silvermane flapped his short tail and looked curiously at Thorin.

"We saw the road from the foothills above the salt lick," Thorin said. "I would like to stand upon that road, if it can be safely reached. It was a great work of the dwarves of Moria, my ancestors."

Silvermane pushed his nose into Thorin's hand, looking for salt.

Silvermane had often demonstrated he understood some of what Thorin said, but many animals could understand simple words and phrases. Expecting the stag to recall events that had happened months earlier was too much. All Silvermane had heard in Thorin's words was _salt_.

To Thorin's horror, he was abruptly overwhelmed with sadness. What was he doing, living in Mirkwood, making no attempt to return to his folk, his only company a white stag, a grey owl, five sheep, and an ever-increasing number of gerbils?

A wave of homesickness swept over him, all the more potent because he had been strangely free of it. He rubbed his face before tears could fall, and exhaled noisily.

Silvermane snorted softly, and touched his nose to Thorin's forehead.

Suddenly Thorin knew what to say. Living in Mirkwood, Silvermane might never have heard the road's name in the common tongue.

"Take me to the _Men-i-Naugrim_ ," Thorin said.

Silvermane's ears stiffened. He raised his head, antlers high, and went to the door, looking back at Thorin.

"Good boy," Thorin said, but now, perversely, his tears fell hot and stinging.

He let the chickens and sheep out onto the pasture, and quickly packed a blanket and enough food for three days. After a moment's thought, he propped open the barn house door so the animals could take refuge if foul weather returned. Closing the door was pointless; anyone determined to enter in his absence could do so.

He strapped on his bow, a quiver of arrows, his dagger, and his axe, and swung himself onto Silvermane's back. Silvermane galloped toward the fence, leapt over it, and landed as softly as a cat on the other side. Wind rushed over them.

* * *

Silvermane did not halt once during the journey; Thorin dozed, undisturbed by the stag's swift canter. Early the next morning, they reached their destination.

The forest was extremely dense, with trailing vines everywhere, and ferns the size of saplings. The ground was damp, almost spongy. But amidst it all was what remained of the _Men-i-Naugrim_.

Straight as a plumb line it ran, west to east. The paving blocks were a foot thick, the road the width of two carts side by side. The stones were tilted now, and many were missing, but the road was in far better repair than Thorin had imagined.

Looking at the paving blocks, Thorin saw the stone was not the local golden sandstone. It was dark granite, shaped and smoothed when the great Dwarrowdelf was hewn out of the mountains; the stone came from Khazad-dum itself.

For an hour, Thorin tried to repair a section of the paving stones, while Silvermane grazed on ferns alongside the road.

When Silvermane joined Thorin, Thorin said, "When I am king, I shall repair this road, if I can muster willing dwarves to labour with me – and if the Elvenking permits."

Silvermane nuzzled Thorin's shoulder for no apparent reason.

But perhaps that would be unwise for many years to come, Thorin mused. Mirkwood's impenetrability had long kept the eastern lands safe from orcs in the mountains. Repairing the road might be too great an aid to their enemies.

They followed the road westward for a quarter of a mile, Thorin walking beside Silvermane, until they reached a bridge over a deep, waterless ravine. The bridge was damaged, and Thorin did not try to cross it.

Looking down into the ravine, Thorin saw a burned area standing out against the thick growth, a twenty by twenty foot scar littered with filth and seared into the land: a recent orc encampment.

South of the road, the forest was ominously dark and silent.

Thorin recalled the ruined battlements he had seen far to the south, and the dread the sight had struck in him. Even to Erebor had come rumours of a sorcerer practising dark magic in Mirkwood. The spiders, wargs, and orcs were only symptoms of Mirkwood's blight, not the cause. But how the forest could be freed from evil Thorin could not guess.

Before they departed, Thorin looked east. If he followed the _Men-i-Naugrim_ , he would eventually reach the River Running, and from there he could reach the Long Lake, and Erebor. But, from what he had seen, he knew the journey would be dangerous and uncertain. Long stretches of road could be missing or impassable. Those still intact could be in use by the Enemy.

Owl's familiar screech startled Thorin out of his thoughts.

The grey owl circled over Silvermane, alighted on the ground before them, and screeched again. Then Owl collapsed, exhausted by its long flight, feathers ragged, talons clotted with black blood.

Silvermane reared and let out a great roar.

Thorin hurriedly picked up Owl, leapt onto Silvermane's back, and wrapped up Owl in his cloak. He was in time. For Silvermane bolted, galloping full speed back to the barn house.

* * *

Silvermane ran without pause, the journey frantic and exhausting, until they reached the barn house after sunset.

A twenty-foot section of the fence was trampled on the ground. Still holding Owl wrapped in his cloak, Thorin leapt off Silvermane and called for the sheep. There was no answering bleat. After setting Owl down, he ran into the barn house. It appeared untouched. He ran back out again.

Silvermane applied his soft, sensitive nose to the fallen fence, then reared up, pawing the air fiercely.

"Trolls," Thorin agreed. He had spotted strange marks on damp earth near the barn house.

The sheep had been taken by trolls. All five could already be dead. Thorin felt like weeping.

The stag faced the woods, and gave a low cry. Two sheep timidly appeared out of the forest, then ran to Silvermane, who touched noses with them and nickered softly.

Two had escaped; three had been taken. Thorin hugged the sheep, and came close to tears a second time.

"We will pursue the trolls in the morning," Thorin said. "You must rest tonight, Silvermane. Our sheep friends are most likely no longer living, so it will not be a rescue mission. It will be revenge."

Owl screeched at Thorin.

"Not you, Owl," Thorin said. "You have done enough. From the state of your talons, I wager we'll find some nasty scratches on the trolls. You will stay here and watch over things."

Thorin's appetite was quite gone, but he had eaten little during the trip to and from the _Men-i-Naugrim_ , so he set to work warming food he had stored in ice in the cold cellar. While he cooked, he worried about the trolls.

The footprints, with their varying numbers of toes, revealed there were at least two trolls, possibly three. Thorin had an excellent opinion of himself and Silvermane as a fighting team, but against three trolls a stag and a dwarf would be hard pressed.

Brute force was not the answer; Thorin had to give thought to a battle plan. He had never seen a troll, but he knew they lacked cunning. A trap to disable one or more of the trolls might serve. But what sort of trap? And how would Thorin bring it about?

While Thorin prepared for bed, his mind drifted to something he had not considered for a while: his apparent quest. The spiders, the wargs, now the trolls. That made three, the usual number when it came to deeds in magical quests. Third time pays for all.

With a jolt, Thorin realised he had grown lax. He must give greater thought to security; the trolls could return in the night for the sheep that had escaped.

Silvermane was already in bed. Thorin climbed up onto the bed platform and scratched between Silvermane's antlers.

"I will go on watch tonight," Thorin said. "I'll sit up by the fire."

Owl hooted from the loft.

"Owl will take over from me," Thorin said. "You must rest, Silvermane. You have run far, Great-heart."

Ignoring Thorin's entreaties, Silvermane followed Thorin to the hearth.

"Go back to bed, boy," Thorin said, his voice falling far short of the necessary sternness.

The stag remained standing beside him, and looked forlorn, so Thorin scratched Silvermane under the chin.

"We can free the sheep, if they still live," Thorin said. "But what about you, Silvermane? I have failed to free you. If you are enchanted, then you are still enchanted. Perhaps you would have done better with another prince."

Silvermane nosed Thorin's ear, and made a soft chuffing sound.

"I know you are foolish enough to go after the trolls alone," Thorin said. "But do not worry, Silly-nose. I will not desert you."

He kissed the stag just above the nose.

An instant later, he jumped back with a shocked cry.

Silvermane was collapsing, like a cast of molten silver suddenly losing its shape, until all that was left was the stag's white hide puddled on the floor.

Out of the wreck rose an elf.


	6. The Enchantment

The elf's height was great, well over six feet. His eyes were blue. His waist-length hair was as silver-white as the stag's hide, his skin nearly as pale. Save for Thorin's gold belt draped loosely around the elf's neck, the elf was naked.

Owl burst from the loft, flying about the barn house and screeching in excitement. But Thorin barely noticed.

Before Thorin could gather enough wits to speak, the elf groaned and sank to his knees. Thorin picked up a blanket and covered the elf – something he should have done immediately.

The elf pressed his stomach with his hands, a look of pain on his face.

"What is wrong?" Thorin said.

"I am famished," the elf said, his voice faint, but as low and fair as Silvermane should have sounded.

"Not surprising," Thorin said, vastly relieved the problem was one easily remedied. "You have been living on berries and grass."

Thorin helped the elf to his feet.

"There is food," Thorin said. "It will take but a moment."

The elf leaned on Thorin for support, as Thorin had once leaned on the stag, and sat on Thorin's table, apparently mistaking it for a bench.

Thorin had been taught elves were flighty, insubstantial, like pale grass that grew under stones. His teaching had been wrong.

When Thorin had draped the blanket over the elf, he had been unable to refrain from admiring the elf's muscular shoulders and arms. The elf's skin was oddly bare, it was true, but the elf's long lustrous hair made up for it. Indeed, the elf was the most beautiful being he had ever seen – or even imagined.

Relieved to have something to do, Thorin heated up the remains of the evening meal, a roasted pheasant stuffed with minced mushrooms and rubbed with salt. Thorin's cooking had been steadily growing more complex.

"Wine," the elf said. It was more of an order than a request.

Thorin offered a dusty bottle from the tree house, which the elf accepted with no sign of recognition.

But Thorin was certain the tree house had been the elf's home. Thorin knew to the inch the size of the clothing he had found there; boots, gloves, and all would fit this elf perfectly.

The elf opened the wine bottle with the ease of long practice. Thorin brought a clay plate heaped with food, poured the wine into two wooden cups, and sat on the table beside the elf, trying to reduce the degree to which the elf towered over him.

Still swathed in the blanket, the elf ate and drank in silence, while Thorin grew increasingly impatient. He had a great many questions.

He was also somewhat puzzled by the elf's behaviour. If Thorin had been saved from an enchantment, he would have promptly thanked his rescuer. The elf had not uttered a word of gratitude, or even acknowledged Thorin _was_ his rescuer.

When the elf's hunger crisis seemed to have passed, Thorin offered clothing (still unaltered) from the tree house. He averted his gaze while the elf dressed, and took the opportunity to put on the clothing he had shed in preparation for sleep: boots, belt, and jacket.

The elf seemed to take it for granted that Thorin would have a well-fitting tunic and leggings on hand; the elf did not question where they came from, not even the boots, which Thorin had taken from the tree house in case he needed leather to patch his own.

The first thing the elf took note of was the gold belt draped about his neck.

"Whence came this?" The elf's tone was short, as if he were addressing an ill-trained servant.

"It was mine," Thorin said, and could think of nothing to add.

The elf drew the belt over his head and gave it to Thorin. The metal was warm in Thorin's hands. Thorin did not put the belt back around his waist, but laid it aside, as if gold belts were commonplace to him – as indeed they were.

Done with dressing, the elf sat on the huge carved chair Thorin used as a worktable. Considering the elf had been huddled in a blanket and begging for food scant minutes before (and that his feet did not quite reach the floor), he looked unfairly imposing.

"Who are you, child?" The elf's voice, while beautiful, was formal and cold. "What are you doing in these lands?" 

Child! Thorin almost grew angry. He was twenty-two, and had a beard, even if it was not yet much of one. He was also taken aback by the elf's lack of manners. As Thorin's guest, the elf should have volunteered his name first.

"I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King of the dwarves of Erebor," Thorin said, louder than he intended. "I am in these lands by leave of the Elvenking. And your name?"

"Well met, Thorin." The elf smiled in an unfriendly manner, as if catching Thorin out in a falsehood. "But I have not given any dwarf the freedom of the Greenwood." 

It took a moment for Thorin to grasp the meaning of the elf's words. When he did, Thorin leapt from the table to stand upon the floor.

His white stag was the Elvenking himself. 

"Thranduil," Thorin said. "At your service, and at your family's." Thorin tried to cover his shock with a bow. 

Thorin had spent half a year riding the Elvenking about the forest. Calling him Silvermane. Cloudyhead. Boy. Moss-lover. Silly-nose. My lovely.

He had heard nothing of Thranduil being transformed into a stag. He was sure Thror had not heard anything, either, or he would have told Thorin. Indeed Thror would have been immensely amused by Thranduil's misfortune.

Thorin quickly reviewed what he knew of the Elvenking, which was practically nothing: Thranduil had been married once. There was a son, the royal heir, but there was no longer a queen. What had happened to her Thorin had never heard.

Still seated in the large carved chair, Thranduil looked at a beeswax candle burning in a stand, and at the fire in the well-swept hearth.

"I remember this homestead," Thranduil said. "It was abandoned long ago. Yet it seems the Beornings have returned."

"They have not," Thorin said, not admitting he had never heard of a people called Beornings. "It is I who made a home here."

Thranduil rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and looked enormously weary for a moment. It at last occurred to Thorin that Thranduil was disoriented.

Thorin said, "Pardon me for asking, but: are you aware you were enchanted, and that until half an hour ago you were a stag?"

"Yes," Thranduil said, after a pause. "But my memories are hazy. I do not know why I am a stag no longer."

"It seems the enchantment was broken by a kiss," Thorin said, his face burning so hotly he feared it was visibly flushed.

"A kiss!" Thranduil frowned. "That is the problem with magic. There is always a loophole!"

Thorin busied himself with clearing away the dishes.

"Where is the knight?" Thranduil said. 

"I beg your pardon," Thorin said. "What knight?"

"I can recall a great warrior," Thranduil said. "It must be he who broke the spell. Bring him to me."

Thorin reddened again – with indignation this time.

"Stags do not experience time as elves do." Thranduil looked wistful. "Nor do stags see well in daylight. But I remember slaying foul beasts with a warrior's aid. I should like to speak to him."

"You _are_ speaking to him," Thorin said, who had quite abandoned clearing the dishes.

Thranduil looked Thorin up and down with an expression of unflattering surprise.

"How could you have possibly kept up, Master Dwarf?" 

Pleased to be rude in turn, Thorin said, "I had a steed. You." 

Thranduil looked furious.

"It wasn't my idea," Thorin said, not at all accurately.

"How long did this arrangement…" Thranduil's voice faltered.

"Since midsummer," Thorin said.

Thranduil pointed at the gold belt, and looked so angry Thorin nearly ducked; it seemed likely a cup or some other missile would fly his way.

"Did you attempt to bridle me?" Thranduil said.

"No," Thorin said. Dwarven hot temper suddenly surged in him, and his next words came out unheeded. "You took the belt, in payment of services _not_ rendered. I asked you to lead me out of the forest. And good luck to anyone seeking to bridle _you_. There was never a more willful beast!"

Thranduil seemed indifferent to Thorin's outburst; he neither smiled nor frowned.

"Since I freed you from the spell," Thorin said, "Perhaps you would be so good as to show me the way out of the forest."

Thorin spoke in anger, temporarily forgetting his planned pursuit of the trolls. When he remembered the missing sheep, he fell silent.

Thranduil requested more wine by pointing to his empty cup, which would have been considered rude even in the humblest of inns.

Resolving not to lose his temper again, Thorin refilled the cup.

"I see no reason to help you," Thranduil said.

"But I broke the enchantment," Thorin said.

"I understand." Thranduil smiled with dreadful condescension. "You are a prince. You think you have landed in a tale of which you are the hero, and should be handsomely rewarded. Although breaking the enchantment was an accident, it seems?"

Thorin did not reply. He did not want to explain the circumstances of the kiss. To do so felt, oddly, like a betrayal of Silvermane.

After he had collected himself, Thorin explained briefly it was Thranduil, in his white stag form, who got Thorin lost in Mirkwood in the first place. He threw in a mention of rescuing the stag from the thorny thicket.

"But what made you cross the river into the Greenwood?" Thranduil said.

Thranduil's repeated references to "the Greenwood" had been confusing Thorin; at last he remembered Mirkwood had once been called that. Now only the small wood east of the River Running, the Little Greenwood, carried the name.

"You stole my food," Thorin said.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"No matter," Thranduil said. "No doubt you came to my realm for the only reason a dwarf ever enters a forest. To cut it down."

Thranduil sipped wine, and dismissively waved a hand.

"You were mistaken in believing I needed your help," Thranduil said.

Thorin was silent for a long moment. He was still befuddled by the elf's beauty, and no fairy tale had prepared him for the undramatic ending of his magical quest. People freed from enchantment were supposed to be grateful, not haughty and rude.

"May I inquire how long you were a stag?" Thorin said.

"It matters not," Thranduil said.

"I could tell you the current year–" Thorin began.

"I care not," Thranduil interrupted, with too much haste for his words to be truthful.

"As you wish," Thorin said. "You no doubt wish to return home, and I–"

"Home?" Thranduil said. "But I _am_ home, Master Dwarf. The Greenwood is my home."

Elves were proving to be slippery customers, indeed. Thorin at last fully empathised with his grandfather's past logging wrangles.

Thranduil suddenly yawned, reminding Thorin of his duties as a host.

"I beg your pardon," Thorin said. "I am keeping you from your rest."

It was difficult to remember the polite platitudes after the direct speech Thorin had addressed to the stag all these months.

"I must impose on you for a bed." Thranduil's tone implied he was granting a favour, not asking for one.

"Bed?" Thorin said.

Bed! The word immediately drove all other concerns out of Thorin's mind.

Thorin had been sharing his bed with the stag. He had not even considered this issue of Thranduil's transformation. Where would Thranduil sleep?

Thorin prayed Thranduil's memories of being a stag remained hazy.

Misunderstanding Thorin's silence, Thranduil grew crosser. "I can no longer sleep in the woods," Thranduil said.

"You have not been," Thorin said slowly.

Before Thorin could explain, Thranduil's gaze lit upon the sheep pen, and a look of horror grew on his face.

Thorin was tempted to say yes, Thranduil-the-stag had slept with the sheep. He did not, but he did not deny it, either, allowing Thranduil to persist in the mistake, which handily absolved Thorin of providing an explanation.

"There is a bed," Thorin said. "Only one. But it is quite large." Thorin's cheeks burned as he imagined Thranduil in the bed with him.

Thranduil turned slowly, perhaps looking for the bed, and studied the barn house interior.

"Quite a collection of animals," Thranduil said. "For a dwarf."

"There are bees," Thorin said, too stressed to speak with sense.

"So long as there are none in the bed," Thranduil said.

"Yes, of course," Thorin said. "You must be very tired. We just returned from a long journey. Trolls took three sheep last night, while we were away."

"What?" Thranduil lifted his head and held it high exactly as Silvermane might have done. "Trolls have entered my realm and harmed my subjects?"

"I was going to keep watch tonight, in case the trolls returned," Thorin said, leaping at an excuse to delay his bedtime.

"Unnecessary." Thranduil pointed at the sheep and the chickens. "You can trust them to warn us of any approach. We will pursue the trolls at first light."

Out of reasons to delay, Thorin showed Thranduil to the bed platform.

Thranduil sat upon it, removed his boots, lay down, and pulled a blanket up to his chin. If he recognised the bedclothes, he did not comment on them.

Thorin extinguished the candles, took off his jacket and boots, and lay down beside Thranduil. The dying fire cast flickering shadows on the walls.

He was incredibly weary, but rest would be long in coming that night, Thorin knew.

In sleep, Thranduil was unnaturally still and silent. Thorin could scarcely hear the elf breathe, and missed the stag's gentle whiffling and snorting.

He had grown used to sleeping in close proximity with the stag. It occurred to him that, without the stag's warmth, he would require more blankets, but he did not get up to fetch one, since it might waken Thranduil and arouse his curiosity. Thorin would put another blanket on the bed the following night.

Still sleepless, Thorin considered the guardian of the forest myth. The tale now made some sense; it might mean Thranduil had been transformed into a white stag once in the past – or, for all Thorin knew, frequently.

Also making sense: the elves chasing Silvermane with a net. The elves must know, or at least suspect, Silvermane was their king. But why had Silvermane run from the elves? That was the greatest mystery, and Thorin had to have an answer. Eventually.

But looking at the sleeping elf's pale gold hair spilling over the blanket, Thorin had no anger toward Thranduil, notwithstanding the Elvenking's rude speech and lack of gratitude. What he had was an intense satisfaction that Thranduil was asleep in _his_ bed, on a mattress that was the work of _his_ hands, and that the food in Thranduil's belly had been procured and prepared by _him_.

During the last seven months, Thorin had, without particularly noticing, become affectionately possessive of Silvermane. Indeed, Silvermane had become the centre of his existence – strange, now that Thorin thought upon it. But his thoughts quickly became scattered.

When Silvermane had transformed into Thranduil, Thorin's possessiveness had shifted to Thranduil, and had immediately blossomed tenfold. Thorin did not wish it to be so; it simply was. It had happened the moment the stag vanished and Thranduil rose from the floor. Thorin had instantly coveted the elf to an unreasoning, powerful, almost frightening degree.

Thorin had sung many old songs about the fierce desires of dwarves that, once wakened, could never be extinguished. But he had had no notion of what that desire felt like, until now. It was exhilarating. He felt he could do anything.

Thorin no longer feared fighting the trolls. Instead he longed to impress Thranduil with his strength and bravery, and thereby capture Thranduil's heart, as mercilessly as Thranduil had captured his own.

* * *

Thorin woke to the usual dawn chatter of the chickens. It was a completely normal morning – except for the elf beside him.

The chicken chorus peaked. The sun rose.

And suddenly next to Thorin was a sleeping stag, not a sleeping elf.

This meant Thorin's kiss had not broken the enchantment – not permanently. Was it because a kiss was not enough? Or because _his_ kiss was not enough? It was infuriating.

Then there was the immediate dilemma. Without Thranduil's aid, should Thorin still go after the trolls? Could he and Silvermane vanquish them?

And last there was an underlying concern, which had shrunk to almost nothing the night before, when Thorin had been simultaneously angered and dazzled: Thranduil the elf would probably lead Thorin out of Mirkwood one day; Silvermane the stag would do no such thing.

While Thorin fretted, Silvermane woke up, and was very much as usual. The stag nuzzled Thorin's hand, demanding a few grains of morning salt, then trotted outside to eat grass.

As if it had fallen from a height, Thranduil's clothing was heaped on the bed. Thorin picked the clothing up and folded it.

When Silvermane returned, the gold belt was about the stag's neck again. How was that possible? 

Thorin tried to remove the gold belt, reasoning that since Thranduil had taken it off Thorin should help the stag do the same. But Silvermane did not cooperate, leaping around the barn house, overturning furniture, and finally looking at Thorin reproachfully.

Thorin gave up for the present, apologised, and gave Silvermane a mushroom.

"I rather missed you," Thorin said, and absentmindedly kissed the stag between the eyes.

In a moment the stag collapsed and once again Thorin was facing a tall, naked, groggy elf. 

Thorin hurriedly threw a cloak over Thranduil, and guided him to the carved wood chair. Thranduil looked so disoriented Thorin feared he would have to explain everything again, but then Thranduil gave him a look of recognition.

"My little dwarf," Thranduil said. "Thorin."

In a few stumbling words, Thorin explained what had happened; Thranduil becoming a stag again at sunrise, then becoming an elf again when Thorin had... Thorin trailed off.

"I see," Thranduil said. "If I became a stag at sunrise, it is very likely I will transform into an elf at sunset. It is the way of such things. Unless you intervene."

The last words were said in a wry undertone.

"Then perhaps..." Thorin refused to blush. "Perhaps you'll become a stag if I kiss you... I mean right now."

"Not likely," Thranduil said. "You did not cast the enchantment, so you can only remove it, not restore it." Thranduil paused, then said, "But it would be well to be sure."

Thranduil suddenly bent over, thrusting his face close to Thorin's. Thorin froze, then kissed Thranduil on the cheek. Thranduil straightened up, still an elf.

"It is as I thought," Thranduil said.

The passion Thorin had been trying to tamp down flared up again; fortunately there was a distraction. Owl alighted on the back of Thranduil's chair and hooted conversationally. Thranduil turned to look.

"You!" Thranduil said to Owl. "I see you have found yourself a comfortable billet. As usual."

Owl suddenly looked small and rumpled.

"He's been very helpful," Thorin said.

"She," Thranduil said.

"Oh," Thorin said. "Does she belong to you?"

"Elves do not own animals," Thranduil said. "But this owl is in service to the elves of the woodland realm, if that is what you mean. She is only a common messenger, however. She does not serve _me_."

"A messenger!" Thorin said. "How does she carry messages?" He studied the silver bands around Owl's legs. Was there a compartment?

"She understands my speech, and I hers," Thranduil said.

The significance of this struck Thorin at once.

"Then perhaps you would ask her, as a favour to me," Thorin said, "if my kinsman made it back to Erebor safely? He fell into an enchanted stream by the River Running. We could not wake him from his slumber."

Thranduil spoke in Elvish. Owl hooted back.

"She knows of your companions," Thranduil said. "They were helped by fishermen, and reached Erebor within a week. The sleeping dwarf woke soon after."

Thorin smiled in relief, a burden lifting he had nearly forgotten he carried.

Owl hooted again. Thranduil looked annoyed.

"What did she say?" Thorin asked.

"Nothing of consequence." Thranduil rose from the chair and began to dress. "Come. We must make haste to pursue the trolls. Tell me what you know of them."

"They may be three in number," Thorin said, averting his eyes from Thranduil's nakedness. "I know nothing more."

"What weapons do you have?" Thranduil asked, his leggings at least in place. "I see you have a bow and an axe. Perhaps you could spare your dagger." The last words were delivered with a slight dig.

Thorin removed the elven dagger from his belt and handed it over without a word. He was considering whether he should make some excuse for taking it, when he remembered the pair of swords. He fetched them from a high shelf and gave them to Thranduil.

Thranduil picked up both swords, one in each hand, and effortlessly flourished them, his body still bare above the waist. His evenly muscled back and arms flexed with the movement.

Blood rushed from Thorin's head and left him without a coherent thought to speak of. Thranduil obtaining his musculature through weapon use made the elf even more attractive to Thorin.

In a haze, Thorin realised Thranduil was speaking to him, and had perhaps been doing so for a while. When Thranduil put on a tunic, Thorin managed to stammer out some nonsense.

"Well," Thranduil said, looking slightly puzzled. "I thank you, Master Dwarf, for keeping my swords safe." He bowed his head an inch in Thorin's direction, and handed the elven dagger back to Thorin.

Thorin was subjected to yet another wave of embarrassment. Thranduil believed Thorin's red face was due to the shame of appearing a thief; Thranduil was unexpectedly being gracious and not accusing Thorin of stealing the swords.

Amidst the embarrassment, Thorin still noticed Thranduil had said _my swords_ , indirectly confirming ownership of the tree house.

"What shall our strategy be?" Thorin eventually got out.

"Fire arrows at the trolls' heads to distract them," Thranduil said. "If they are too close for that, use your axe on their legs. I'll take care of the rest."

Thorin nodded, privately disagreeing violently with Thranduil taking care of "the rest." Thorin was determined to do more than his fair share of troll killing.

"I must remain in this form," Thranduil said. "When we find the trolls, it will be best to attack immediately after dawn. If I become a stag, you will have to... intervene. If necessary."

Thorin packed three leaf cakes, all that remained. A quarter of an hour later, they were out the door.

Thranduil led. Thorin followed.


	7. The Warrior

Thorin wondered about many things as they tracked the trolls. Was Thranduil's sense of smell as keen as Silvermane's? Thorin thought not, but it seemed Thranduil's eyesight more than made up for the lack. Sometimes Thranduil halted to study the ground, looking intently at what appeared to Thorin to be absolutely nothing.

They were traveling through dark and gloomy pines. No birds sang. Nothing grew under the trees; all smaller plants had been smothered by a thick carpet of dead pine needles. Thranduil's pace was swift, and Thorin grimly kept up. He would not ask for a rest before the elf did.

They went on for hours, the gloom steadily increasing until Thorin was sure night was falling. At last, they came upon a grisly scene.

Along the bank of a shallow stream was a small clearing; within the clearing were the remains of a large fire. Bones and tufts of wool littered the site.

Thorin exclaimed in grief.

Thranduil held up a hand, warning Thorin not to advance further, then studied the bones.

"Two sheep were killed here," Thranduil said. "You said the trolls took three?"

Thorin nodded, not trusting his voice.

Thranduil knelt by the fire, and sniffed it. "How long has it been since the sheep were taken?"

"Nearly two days," Thorin said.

"The trolls were here not more than twelve hours ago," Thranduil said. "Strange. They should have much more of a lead. Ah. Look here."

The trolls' footprints were visible on the stream's muddy bank, but the darkness was close to absolute; Thorin could not make any deductions from the footprints, but perhaps Thranduil could. Then Thorin remembered the light crystal, and removed it from his jacket pocket.

Seeing the crystal, Thranduil exclaimed in Elvish. Thorin opened his hand, allowing Thranduil to take it. When Thranduil held the crystal aloft, light poured from it, as if Thranduil held a star in his hand. Thorin could see nothing but the bright spot of light.

"It is well you brought this," Thranduil said.

The crystal's radiance ebbed, becoming better suited to the darkness under the trees. Thranduil studied the footprints.

"There are three trolls," Thranduil said. "But there is something strange here. Two of the trolls walked side by side, as if one was leading the other. Most unusual for trolls."

"Ah!" Thorin exclaimed. He told Thranduil of the dark blood on Owl's talons.

"She may have blinded one," Thranduil said. "That would explain their slow pace. We are in luck."

Thorin swayed on his feet.

"My apologies, young prince," Thranduil said. "We shall take a brief halt. But not here." Thranduil slipped the crystal into a pocket.

"I cannot see in the dark," Thorin reluctantly admitted.

Thranduil took his hand. They crossed the stream, and continued on for half an hour. Even with Thranduil's guidance, Thorin stumbled a few times. The touch of Thranduil's hand had set his heart racing.

"We shall rest here," Thranduil said. 

_Here_ was beneath a majestic pine. Its branches swept the ground; fallen pine needles, once covered with Thranduil's cloak, made a comfortable enough resting place. Thorin smiled. It was exactly the type of refuge Silvermane preferred.

Thranduil took out the light crystal, which glowed dimly, just enough to relieve the darkness. They shared half a leaf cake and drank deeply from their waterskins.

"Is it true trolls will eat, well, anything?" Thorin asked.

"Do you mean dwarves?" Thranduil said. "Yes, they eat dwarves, and men. But they do not eat elves."

Thorin was surprised. "Why not?"

"Because of the immortal dust of which we are made," Thranduil said. "We are as ashes in their mouths."

Thorin nodded, but he had not thought much on the immortal nature of elves. How old was Thranduil? Would it be rude to ask?

Thranduil suddenly smiled, teeth showing, the first time he had done so, making Thorin's heart thump hard.

"But do not worry, young prince," Thranduil said. "You do not bear the risk alone. A troll would not hesitate to bite my head off, even though he would spit it out afterward."

Thorin grimaced. It was not an image he wished to hold in his mind.

"If we continue on, we shall catch up with the trolls near daybreak," Thranduil said.

"I am ready," Thorin said, though he could have slept for a day straight, right there on the ground.

Thranduil hung the light crystal from the gold belt about his neck, then looked surprised, as if just realising he was wearing the belt.

"I did not put the belt back on you," Thorin said hurriedly. "It appeared on you after sunrise, when you became a stag again."

They resumed their journey. Thanks to the light crystal, Thorin did not stumble. The brief rest, together with their meal, had done much to restore him, but Thranduil's smile had heartened him even more. Thorin could not wait to reach the trolls and exact revenge while Thranduil looked on admiringly.

The last of the night passed as they marched. A bird twittered. Thranduil suddenly halted. Thorin nearly ran into him.

"The sun is rising," Thranduil said.

Thranduil sank to the ground. A bird shrieked overhead. There was a strange folding of light, and there was Silvermane standing over a pile of clothing, the gold belt about his fluffy neck, the light crystal glowing on his breast.

Silvermane bleated softly, and pushed his nose against Thorin's forehead.

"Glad to see you, too, boy," Thorin said, smiling. "Now hold still." He kissed the stag above the nose.

Silvermane shrank in upon himself, and Thranduil lay naked upon the ground.

Thorin covered Thranduil with a cloak. Thranduil sat up, blinking a bit, but he quickly recovered, got dressed, and buckled on his swords. He gave the light crystal to Thorin, who tucked it away; even Thorin could see now in the dim light of dawn under the trees.

"I smell the trolls," Thranduil whispered. "They are very close, within a mile."

They traveled forward, slower than before, until a faint red glow could be seen beneath the trees ahead. A bonfire.

A cooking fire.

Thranduil knelt and whispered in Thorin's ear.

"A sheep still lives," Thranduil said quietly. "I hear her. We must attack quickly, before the sheep catches your scent and calls out to you. Are you ready, Master Dwarf?"

"Yes," Thorin whispered.

They raced ahead, crashing through the trees into the clearing, Thorin's only fear that he would embarrass himself in front of Thranduil.

Three trolls were about the fire, two sitting, one standing.

The standing troll held the sheep.

When getting sheared, the sheep had made a dreadful noise at first, but Thorin now learned sheep could make even more dire sounds.

Enraged by the sheep's fear-filled bleating, Thorin found himself shouting in Khuzdul, _The axes of the dwarves are upon you!_ Completely forgetting Thranduil's advice to fire arrows at the trolls' faces, he swept forward and swung his axe at the standing troll's shin.

The troll kicked him, throwing Thorin several feet. Stunned, Thorin lay on his back, blinking up at the trees, his axe thankfully still in his hand.

He was on his feet in time to see Thranduil leap onto the troll's back, stand on the troll's shoulders, bend down, and cut the troll's throat with a sword, a feat of strength Thorin would soon learn to appreciate. Thorin caught the sheep as the troll crumpled.

The other two trolls had been slow to respond, but now both were standing, and bellowing so loudly Thorin's ears were stunned. One troll had clumsy dirty bandages over its face, so Thorin fired arrow after arrow at the other troll.

Thranduil leapt up onto the troll's back, but this troll wore an iron collar. Without hesitation Thranduil stabbed downwards, drove his twin swords into the troll's skull, and leapt away before the troll fell heavily to the ground, never to move again.

The last troll, the unseeing wounded one, stomped about, possibly a greater hazard in its state of confusion than it would have been otherwise. Since Thranduil had dealt the death blows to the other two trolls, Thorin was determined to take this troll down.

Thorin extended his arm toward Thranduil, who seized it and swung Thorin up onto the troll's back. Yes! Precisely what Thorin had had in mind. He swung his axe downward onto the troll's skull, in imitation of Thranduil, and then shouted in pain; it was like striking the hard stone of Erebor. His axe had barely broken the troll's flesh.

The troll's massive hand seized him. Thorin had time to fit an arrow in his bow, then he was upside down above the troll's head. He fired the arrow into the troll's open mouth. It roared, engulfing Thorin in foul searing breath. The hand on him tightened. He dropped his bow and yelled with pain.

Thranduil shouted in a strange language. Thorin, still upside down in the troll's grip, saw a massive tree branch fall from above. Sunlight flashed downwards. The troll howled, squeezing Thorin until Thorin yelled in pain again. Then all was still.

Thorin gasped for breath; the troll's hand was still tight about him, but the hand had turned to stone.

Thranduil climbed up and eased Thorin out of the stone hand's grasp, then lowered Thorin to the ground. The sheep bleated in Thorin's face. Thorin laughed, felt a sharp pain in his chest, and grunted involuntarily.

"I fear you are sorely hurt," Thranduil said, kneeling beside him.

"Merely bruised," Thorin said, lying boldly.

Thranduil examined Thorin's left arm, touching the rent jacket sleeve with a careful finger.

"You have been scratched by troll nails," Thranduil said, his expression grave. "It is more serious than you might think."

Thorin got to his feet. There was a sharp stabbing pain in his ribs. His face turned cold, and for a moment he feared he would be sick.

All three trolls had turned to stone, even the two slain by Thranduil. There would thankfully be no need for burial or burning.

The shaft of sunlight fell on Thranduil's face, on a smudge of dark blood on his cheek, and for a moment Thorin was lost in admiration of the elf's beauty.

"I must see to you before we depart," Thranduil said.

In too much pain to protest, Thorin followed Thranduil a short distance from the stone trolls, the sheep bumping up against Thorin's legs.

Thranduil spread his cloak on the ground. After Thorin lay down, Thranduil helped Thorin remove his jacket and roll up the sleeve of his tunic, then the elf examined the ugly scratch on Thorin's left forearm.

Thorin was more concerned about his bow; his bowstring was snapped in two, and he had no spare strings. With regret, he thought of the bow he had left behind in the tree house.

Thranduil suddenly prodded Thorin's ribs. Thorin cursed loudly in Dwarvish, and was sufficiently humbled to make no objection when Thranduil stripped off Thorin's tunic, leaving Thorin bare-chested. Thranduil carefully felt Thorin's ribcage. Thorin's face went hot and cold alternately, between embarrassment and pain.

"You have one or more fractured ribs," Thranduil said.

Thranduil took off his own tunic, cut several strips from it with Thorin's dagger, and bound Thorin's ribs. The bandage made a surprising difference, easing much of the pain immediately.

"I can walk," Thorin said.

Thranduil helped him dress. They left, Thranduil leading, the sheep in the middle, Thorin bringing up the rear. Their pace was slow. When they had traveled an hour, Thranduil called a halt.

Once again they went beneath the shelter of a mighty fir. Thranduil caught low hanging branches and swiftly wove them together, making a living hammock. 

Thorin gaped. He had never thought of such a thing.

"For you, Master Dwarf," Thranduil said with a half-smile.

Thranduil then made a hammock for himself, and even one for the sheep.

After Thorin lay in the springy green bed, Thranduil helped Thorin undress, and unwrapped the bandage around Thorin's chest. Dark bruising was visible over Thorin's ribs, but there was no bruising beneath the hair on Thorin's chest or anywhere else, which, according to Thranduil, was a good sign. Thranduil rewrapped the bandage, and helped Thorin put on his tunic.

"We shall rest here today," Thranduil said. "And sleep here tonight." Thranduil's voice was suddenly extremely serious. "Thorin."

"What?" Thorin said, startled. 

"If I become a stag at dawn, as I expect I will, you shall leave me as one." Thranduil paused. "You must ride the rest of the way. But once we are back, I will need the use of my hands to treat the wound on your arm."

Thorin muttered words of assent. He had assumed he would never ride the stag again; Thranduil making the offer surprised him deeply.

* * *

Thorin woke the next morning to find a sheep and a stag staring at him. He packed up Thranduil's discarded clothing, and they set off, Thorin riding Silvermane, the sheep following behind.

Silvermane's gait was surefooted and smooth. The stag stopped whenever they were near low shrubs and other forage for the hungry sheep, so their progress home was slow but steady. They passed the nights in improvised hammocks, reaching the barn house just before sunset two days later. Thorin had time to carefully slide off Silvermane's back and follow Silvermane into the barn house before the stag transformed into Thranduil. 

The three sheep had a noisy, joyful reunion. Owl screeched a welcome, and flew out through the window flap. Thorin hoped she had left to hunt.

When Thranduil was dressed and in command of himself once more, he directed Thorin to lie on the bed. Thorin obeyed.

Thranduil built a fire and heated water.

Thorin feared a public bath was ahead.

Owl returned with two plump silvery fish, not just the usual one, Thorin noted. Thranduil prepared dinner while Thorin rested.

After they ate, Thranduil placed stones in hot water, then set the warmed stones next to Thorin's bandaged ribs. Thorin sighed in relief – the pain was lessened, and he had not had to strip completely for a bath.

Thorin would have found Thranduil's attention more embarrassing if not for Thranduil's straightforward manner; Thranduil clearly had a great deal of experience in field medicine.

Owl roosted by the fire and looked pleased.

"You are due thanks," Thranduil said to Owl. "If you had not struck the first blow, we would not have caught up to the trolls in time to rescue our friend."

When Owl preened, Thorin smiled.

"And you, Master Dwarf," Thranduil said, turning toward Thorin.

 _Oh no._ Thorin tensed. He had been unforgivably foolhardy during the troll battle, and had hoped Thranduil would not bring it up.

"You have great strength," Thranduil said. "And even greater courage. You shall make a name for yourself, young warrior."

Thorin flushed with pleasure.

"I must deep-clean your wound now," Thranduil said.

Bolstered by Thranduil's praise, Thorin bore the poking and prying without a murmur. Thranduil bound Thorin's left arm, then rose to undress, and joined Thorin on the bed.

The sheep were still bleating comfortingly at one another. Thorin quickly dropped off to sleep.

Soon after, he started awake; he had dreamt of the troll's gaping mouth. Something was wrapped about him, the troll's iron-hard hand... No. It was just a dream. But something _was_ about him. Thranduil's arm.

Thorin was shocked, then elated. The elf was embracing him. Then he realised Thranduil was asleep, and not embracing him as a lover. Thranduil was cuddling Thorin in sleep, as Dis cuddled her dolls.

Thorin was still elated, but also embarrassed. Should he waken Thranduil? Push the elf's arm away? 

He wanted Thranduil's arm to remain, but it made him feel _small_. Was small and child-like how Thranduil saw him? Perhaps. But Thranduil had called him _young warrior_ , so the odds of future respect were not utterly hopeless.

Besides, the heat of Thranduil's arm was a comfort to Thorin's sore ribs. He would let Thranduil's arm remain, although it was not offered in the spirit he wanted it to be given.

* * *

For a few days, Thorin could not assist in any household chores. He could not even comb his hair. Any activity requiring him to lift his arms was painful. While he healed, he arranged with Thranduil to keep Thranduil in elf form, which meant kissing the stag every morning.

Silvermane rapidly became accustomed to this. Each day began with the loud clucking of chickens, and Thranduil turning into the stag. The stag invariably ran outside, then returned a short while later to place his nose expectantly against Thorin's face.

Once Silvermane was Thranduil, however, the familiarity was over. Thranduil was polite and competent about caring for the animals and for Thorin, but the elf was not affectionate.

After three days of this, Thorin had wearied of bed rest, and was desperate for a distraction.

Thranduil had been engrossed in a task for a few hours. Thorin got up to walk around the barn house, but he was only comfortable while standing or lying flat, so watching what Thranduil was doing (some type of sewing?), without being obvious about it, was impossible. His curiosity unsatisfied, Thorin returned to bed.

Later that afternoon, Thranduil produced Thorin's bow. It had a new bowstring.

"Draw it, if you can without discomfort," Thranduil said.

Thorin drew the bow carefully. "The tension is perfect," Thorin said. "Thank you. Where did you get the string?"

Thranduil looked slightly uncomfortable. "It is made of hair."

"What hair?" Thorin said.

"Elven hair," Thranduil said.

When Thranduil walked away to tend the fire, Thorin examined the bowstring. With difficulty, he could make out Thranduil's individual hairs and the intricate weaving method Thranduil had used. Thorin resolved to cherish the bowstring forever.

Thorin's joy over the bowstring soon faded, however.

Every night, when Thranduil shared the bed with Thorin as a matter of course, Thorin grew slightly more morose.

He suspected Thranduil thought nothing of sleeping beside him because Thranduil regarded him as harmless.

Thorin felt far from harmless. His heart ached with desire, and he was not used to it.

He had fallen in love half a dozen times in the past, but had learned the objects of his affection were quickly revealed to be ordinary beings if he ignored the sensation. With the elf, it was not working that way. Thorin's passion was increasing, not decreasing, and Thorin found it hellish. 

Every sunrise, the gold belt returned to the stag's throat. Every sunset, Thranduil took the belt off. But now, on the fourth day following the troll battle, Thranduil seemed to have given up on removing the gold belt.

The sight of the gold draped around Thranduil's throat further inflamed Thorin's passion. He daydreamed about the rich jewellery he would have made for Thranduil, and how it would enhance – nay, complement; nothing could improve upon – Thranduil's beauty. He pictured Thranduil dressed in the fashion of dwarves, in silk the rich colours of ruby, sapphire, or emerald. He imagined how every dwarf in Erebor would admire Thranduil, and know by Thorin's gifts that Thranduil was Thorin's, and Thorin's alone.

If his thoughts had stayed on jewels and finery, Thorin would have been calmer. But, while Thorin had no experience as a lover, he had knowledge, so his passionate thoughts took an aggravatingly detailed form. _Marital Maladies_ had been extraordinarily comprehensive. 

On the fifth day after their return from the troll battle, Thranduil removed Thorin's chest and arm bandages, and pronounced him healed. Thorin felt well enough to follow Thranduil outside. When Thranduil went up on the roof, however, Thorin prudently watched from the ground.

Thranduil opened a hive box and looked inside.

Thorin was alarmed. "What are you doing? Can't you hear the bees? They are furious!"

"They are not angry," Thranduil said. "They are keeping their queen warm through the winter. She is at the hive's centre."

Thranduil nonchalantly removed a dripping honeycomb.

"But she's no better than a prisoner," Thranduil said softly.

Thranduil ground beechnuts into flour, mixed the flour with beaten eggs and honey, moulded the soft dough into cakes, and baked them in the oven. When the cakes had cooled, Thranduil dipped them in melted wax to preserve them – but not before Thorin had greedily eaten two.

"These remind me of the leaf cakes from the tree house," Thorin said. "Did you make those as well?"

Thranduil gave no answer.

"You know the tree house of which I speak," Thorin said. "Did you live there?"

"At times," Thranduil said.

"Will you return to it?" Thorin asked.

"Someday," Thranduil said. "Perhaps in the spring. This home" – Thranduil looked about the barn house – "is a better one to spend the winter in."

Thorin was proud Thranduil thought the barn house hospitable, and was happy Thranduil would remain with him, but uncertain as to why Thranduil would wish to, instead of returning to his tree house, or to his palace in the north. 

Thorin had heard the woodland realm's palace was beautiful, but that was not to be wondered at, since the palace had been built in imitation of Menegroth, an elven fortress of old constructed by the renowned dwarves of Belegost.

"Thorin," Thranduil said, serious and low.

Thorin jumped. He had been about to reach for another cake.

"Now that you are well," Thranduil said, “I would prefer that you do not intervene in my... condition. Let matters take their natural course."

"You wish to be a stag during the day?" Thorin said, cake forgotten. "Why?"

"It is not your concern," Thranduil said, his voice cool. "But I will say I have not yet accomplished my purpose."

"You mean you _chose_ to be a stag?" Thorin said, too surprised to take Thranduil's hint it was not a matter for discussion. "But what of your family? Your people?"

Thorin could not imagine a king who would abandon his rule. Recalling the elves who had pursued them, Thorin believed one mystery at least had been answered: why Silvermane fled the elves. Apparently the elves did not agree with their king's choice to be a stag.

"My son rules in my absence," Thranduil said. After a pause, he added, "I have no other family." Thranduil's look of sorrow quenched Thorin's curiosity, at least for the moment.

There was an awkward silence while Thranduil poured himself a cup of wine, and, almost as an afterthought, poured wine for Thorin as well.

Thorin fell back on politeness.

"I am quite recovered," Thorin said. "You do not need to stay here on my account. I should thank you for..."

Thorin had been about to compliment Thranduil on his usefulness as a healer, cook, beekeeper, and herdsman, but it would have come out badly: _I expected you to be worthless in all practical matters, but you are not._

Thranduil looked at Thorin with a hint of a smile, apparently guessing Thorin's train of thought.

"I have not always lived a soft life, Thorin. When my people came to this forest, we had lost a greater one," Thranduil said. "We wandered for many years before we made the Greenwood our home."

Was Thranduil referring to the fall of Doriath? Thorin did not dare ask, fearing the dwarves' role in that catastrophe would become the topic. Not that the dwarves were entirely to blame, for had not the Elvenking of Doriath taken a dwarf chieftain hostage, then insultingly demanded compensation for his room and board? 

"Want and war were our lot," Thranduil said. "But I bore burdens lightly then. Then my wife..."

Thorin looked encouraging.

"She suffered a grievous hurt," Thranduil said. "Her spirit fled Arda and did not return."

Thorin said a few suitable words of commiseration, but he could not stop his relief, even joy, at the confirmation Thranduil was without a spouse. But could elves actually die? What Thorin had heard was murky. He knew it was rude, even cruel, to ask for clarification, but he had to know if Thranduil was a widower, or only separated from his wife.

"I thought elves were immortal," Thorin said. "And could be reborn."

To his great relief, it was enough to prompt further explanation.

"Elves can be reborn," Thranduil said, slowly and heavily. "But not twice."

Thorin looked suitably distressed, but he was again encouraged. He did not entirely understand Thranduil's answer, but it seemed Thranduil's wife was not living – certainly not in any sense that counted to a young infatuated dwarf prince.

* * *

Thorin proved he was quite recovered by repairing the troll-damaged fence. As he worked during daylight hours, he worked alone; Silvermane's talents did not extend to hammering nails or shaping fence rails.

Somewhat to Thorin's surprise, Thranduil transforming into a stag at sunrise, an elf at sunset, became routine.

Since Thranduil seemed briefly disoriented and chilled after transforming back to his elf form, Thorin moved the large carved chair next to the warm hearth, and placed Thranduil's clothing ready at hand beside it.

When the sun was about to set, Owl could be relied on to warn of the event with a loud screech. It was only a few days before Silvermane, in response to Owl's hectoring, stood by the carved chair to await the transformation, sometimes even resting his hindquarters on the seat, which was such a comical sight Thorin had to go outside to laugh.

After the transformation took place, Thorin averted his gaze until Thranduil was dressed. Thranduil was always extremely hungry, so they ate dinner promptly. It meant Thorin had to do the cooking again, but, as Thranduil did the washing up afterward, Thorin did not complain – although he desired to, for Thranduil was a far better cook than a dishwasher.

Thranduil did not restrict himself to washing dishes. The elf took possession of the enormous tools left by the Beornings, and put the tools to use. In the evenings, aided only by starlight, Thranduil dug in the snow under the trees, uncovering a thick layer of dry pine needles beneath a shallow wet one. He moved heaps of it into the barn house with the enormous wheelbarrow, spreading it in the sheep and chicken pens. Thranduil also hauled the used material out and scattered it on the sodden meadow, where presumably it would do helpful things when spring arrived.

Thranduil's chores caused Thorin a great deal of suffering, because Thranduil inevitably stripped off his jacket and tunic, working only in a thin vest, making Thorin an unwilling yet eager spectator to Thranduil's mucking out of pens.

The weather was frequently stormy, alternating between rain and snow flurries, so traveling more than an hour or two from home was ill-advised. Their fixed way of life unfortunately gave Thorin time to brood.

His mood veered wildly between pleasure at Thranduil's company, and worry about Thranduil's opinion of him.

Amongst dwarves, Thorin was considered tall and handsome. He had even received admiring glances from the folk of Dale and the Lake. After taking into account the inherent untrustworthiness of flattery given to royalty, Thorin still had been complimented enough to be confident in his looks. But what did Thranduil see when he looked at Thorin? Did the elf see a handsome prince, or one of the _naugrim_ , an ugly, stunted creature? Thorin thought dismally of the contrast between the fine silverware and the rustic clay plates they used daily.

Thranduil always bathed after dinner, but Thorin shrank from undressing before Thranduil, so he bathed in the morning after breakfast, when his companion was a stag, not an elf.

Thorin tried to appreciate the irony of his situation. According to dwarven custom, Thorin should not have found Thranduil at all desirable. Aside from possessing great wealth (not to mention a practically limitless supply of timber), Thranduil was the opposite of everything Thorin had been taught to prize.

Thorin's predicament was exacerbated by the wildly different temperaments of Thranduil the elf and Silvermane the stag.

Thorin had largely ceased to pet Silvermane, and had not ridden the stag since they had returned from the troll battle. Thranduil would not welcome being scratched behind the ears, so Thorin was reluctant to do the same to Silvermane. Silvermane, however, was as affectionate as ever, and seemed puzzled at the change in Thorin. The stag had been put in the middle.

After two weeks, however, Thorin was forced to relent slightly.

There was finally a break in the storms. Owl still brought game, but Thorin was restless and resolved to go hunting. He set out on foot in search of an unfrozen stream or pond to fish in.

Silvermane followed him, and continually bumped Thorin in the back with his muzzle, as if disapproving of Thorin's use of his own two legs. Finally, Silvermane lay down across the path like a sulky child.

"Get up, Silly-nose," Thorin said. "I shall ride, if you insist."

He leapt onto Silvermane's back. Silvermane bounded joyfully through the woods, running for the sheer pleasure of it, until Thorin was smiling.

That night the weather turned stormy again. It snowed, then drizzled, and then the temperature plummeted, the weather as wayward as Thorin's moods. Even with a fire roaring in the hearth, the barn house was frosty. Thranduil slept unbearably close to Thorin all night.

When Silvermane went outside the next morning, Thorin heard a loud _thump_. He went out the door to see what the matter was.

The rain had melted the thin layer of snow, and the whole had frozen as slick, smooth ice. Silvermane was sprawled on the ground, legs sticking out in all directions.

Silvermane got up and went sprawling again.

Thorin could not help laughing. The sight of the graceful stag falling over was too much for him.

"Wait there, Your Majesty," Thorin said.

He fetched the horse shoes he had found when he had first arrived. They were rough and scored with age, but in the circumstances that would be an advantage. 

Silvermane was not keen on remaining still while Thorin clamped the horseshoes over his hooves, but when Silvermane rose again he was able to stay upright on the ice, and nuzzled Thorin's ear gratefully.

Thorin made sure to remove the shoes from Silvermane's hooves before sundown; he was afraid the shoes would remain after the transformation, as the gold belt did, and that would lead to who knew what conversation.

Fortunately, the next morning there was a distraction from their housebound existence.

Thorin nearly dropped his breakfast plate when he saw a strange owl staring at him from the loft.

"Hello?" Thorin said.

The brown and white owl looked incredulous that Thorin was capable of speech. Expertly using Owl's window flap, the owl departed, returning shortly with some type of game (wishing to preserve his appetite, Thorin did not closely observe the gory bundle), delivering it to the loft.

When Silvermane became Thranduil that evening, Thorin told the elf of the new inhabitant.

"I'm worried about Owl," Thorin said. "She hasn't really shown her face since this other owl arrived. I was going to climb up to the loft–"

"Do not do that!" Thranduil said. Then more calmly he added, "She must be nesting. The new owl is her mate. When her owlings hatch, her mate will bring her and the owlings food."

Thorin must have looked depressed, because Thranduil said, "What troubles you?"

"I shall have to hunt," Thorin said. "Owl has been providing most of the meat. All of it, actually."

"There are options other than hunting," Thranduil said. "The sheep, for instance–"

"What!" Thorin exclaimed, shocked.

"Can be milked," Thranduil finished wryly. "I wonder that you have not tried it."

"You would not wonder," Thorin said, "if you had heard them when I clipped their wool."

"In addition," Thranduil said, "this homestead once had vegetable beds. If we dig the beds up, we may find potatoes and the like." 

"You milk," Thorin said. "I'll dig."

Thranduil agreed to the division of labour, so, as soon as the weather permitted, Thorin dug up carrots, potatoes, beets, parsnips, and turnips.

Thranduil made soft cheese from sheep's milk, and baked more honey cakes. The chickens laid eggs, and kept the barn house beetle-less. Owl's mate flew out every night, and returned with food for her. The sheep and gerbils ate forage Thranduil gathered in the evenings, which Silvermane the stag sometimes enjoyed in the mornings.

And so they passed through the waning of winter, Thorin's days spent with a joyful and loving stag, his nights spent with an aloof and beautiful elf.

Thorin's desire to leave Mirkwood and return home to Erebor was nearly entirely forgotten.


	8. The Pursuit

The days grew longer and warmer. Only the snow in the dark cold under the tallest trees remained. Flowers bloomed in the meadow, and were quickly eaten by the gerbils until Thranduil had a word with them.

Soon Thranduil had coaxed a large flower garden into existence. The bees were ecstatic; honey production increased. 

In the evenings after dinner, Thranduil wandered the woods, returning with wild onions, pine nuts, and lettuce.

Loud peeps came from the loft one morning. Master Owl, looking exhausted but determined, flew back and forth on his daily hunting trips, feeding the unseen but increasingly vocal owlets and their mother.

One afternoon, Thorin was planting sprouted potato cuttings in the new raised vegetable beds he had constructed, when the pasturing sheep suddenly ran to the fence. The sheep did not appear frightened, so Thorin remained where he was, and waited.

A ram leapt over the fence, its manner boastful.

"Oh, no," Thorin said. "You. Out! Silvermane?"

But the stag, who had been helping Thorin by ploughing up the ground with his antlers, showed no interest in visiting rams.

Thorin laboured on, doing his best to ignore the sheep. When the sun was low in the sky, Silvermane chased the ram away, and they herded the sheep inside.

As Thorin checked the sheep in their pen (their adventures with the ram did not seem to have brought them to any grief), and said, "Good night, Butterball, Cottontail, and Silly-face," he became aware of Thranduil observing him.

Thranduil had transformed just minutes earlier, and so was looking slightly bleary. He was well wrapped in a blanket, sitting in the carved chair, and waiting for Thorin to bring him something to eat.

"You named the sheep," Thranduil said.

"I have."

"Have you named the stag?"

Thorin flushed so rapidly a denial was pointless. "I call him Silvermane."

He busied himself with dinner, not daring to look up at Thranduil for a while. When he finally did, he found Thranduil smiling.

* * *

Silvermane leapt the fence himself a week later, and was gone all day. Thorin did not worry much; knowing he could have words with Thranduil that evening about the absence comforted him.

But when it was three hours past noon, and Silvermane had still not returned, Thorin imagined Silvermane transforming into Thranduil in the woods, far from the barn house, naked in the cold night air.

He searched the ground near the gate, trying to determine where the stag had gone. Then he saw a white patch in the trees.

"Silvermane?"

The stag was there, partly concealed by trees and brush. Thorin was relieved, but when the stag remained in the trees he grew concerned again.

"Here, boy!" Thorin called.

Silvermane came nearer, but still stayed partially hidden in the brush, his left side to Thorin.

"It's nearly time for dinner," Thorin said.

Silvermane finally left the cover of the trees. Thorin burst into laughter. Silvermane had shed his right antler, making his appearance lopsidedly ridiculous. Thorin did not blame the stag for hiding.

With a little more coaxing, Silvermane followed Thorin inside the gate. The stag rubbed his head against a fence post, then seemed to get an idea, approaching Thorin with head lowered.

"Absolutely not," Thorin said. "I will not help you with that. It will come off on its own when it is ready."

He made for the barn house. Silvermane poked him in the back with the remaining antler. When Thorin turned around to admonish the stag, Silvermane lay on the grass and looked hopeful.

"Very well, Your Majesty," Thorin said, resigned.

He gripped the antler and pulled. Nothing happened. They tried again. This time, Silvermane got up and stepped backward. The antler stayed on; Thorin was dragged forward.

"This isn't working," Thorin said. Holding tight to the antler, Thorin said, "On the count of three. One, two, three!"

He pulled hard as Silvermane stepped back. The antler came off so suddenly Thorin fell upon the grass. Silvermane stood over him and nosed his face.

"I'm fine, boy," Thorin said. "No harm done."

Silvermane bleated joyfully, and, taking advantage of his antler-free state, rolled so energetically on the grass Thorin hastily moved a few feet away. When Silvermane seemed calmer, Thorin sat beside the stag and examined the tender spots left by the missing antlers.

Abruptly, as if figuring out it was at last possible, Silvermane laid his head in Thorin's lap and looked up at him fondly. Thorin was amused, and touched.

"Good boy," Thorin said, and scratched Silvermane's forehead. " _You_ care for me, at least."

Silvermane chuffed and snorted contentedly.

"Very good boy," Thorin said, and kissed the stag's nose.

 _Oh no_ , Thorin thought, but it was too late.

Faster than Thorin's eyes could follow, Silvermane vanished, and Thorin was sitting on the grass with a naked Thranduil sprawled beside him, Thranduil's head in Thorin's lap, Thorin's hands full of Thranduil's long gold hair.

Thranduil sat up, saw the shed antler on the grass, and apparently deduced what had happened, for he said nothing.

"I will get a blanket," Thorin croaked.

Thorin had briefly seen the elf naked many times, but only by dim indoor light or in the dark woods, never in full sunlight. Thranduil in the light of day was ten times as beautiful.

Ignoring Thorin's offer (perhaps because Thorin had not actually moved), Thranduil stood, walked to the barn house, and went inside.

Thorin remained on the grass for a good long while, waiting for his blood to cool, and giving Thranduil time to get dressed.

When Thorin entered the barn house, Thranduil was fully clothed and milking the sheep. Thorin cleaned the hearth, then laid a fire for their dinner that evening. He refilled the sheep's water trough and fed the chickens. He gathered eggs.

Thranduil offered him a cup of milk. Thorin drank it. With a minimum of speech, they prepared dinner and sat down to eat.

During the winter, Thorin had modified the table and benches so they could both dine comfortably, and almost eye-to-eye. While they ate, mostly in silence, Thorin brooded.

He wanted to possess Thranduil: Thranduil's smile; Thranduil's hair; the way Thranduil took honeycombs from the bees as if he had produced the honey himself.

But Thorin shied away from turning his thoughts into speech. And yet he had to say _something_.

Thorin was, after all, a prince. He could not be casual with his affections. He knew there was a vast difference between the way elves and dwarves undertook betrothals, and that those differences could lead to an unfortunate misunderstanding.

 _Marital Maladies_ had devoted a few pages to the customs of all races. Dwarvish marriages were highly formal, a keenly relished opportunity to display wealth and power. In contrast, marriages among men were practically an afterthought, sealed by a toast after supper in the presence of a witness or two. Elvish marriages were alarmingly simple (even more so than those of men), consisting of two elves setting up a household together, declaring they were married, and producing or adopting children.

Therefore, Thorin reasoned, living with Thranduil without even a promise of marriage was highly improper, even disrespectful, according to dwarvish custom, although an elf might not see it so.

At the very least, Thorin had to introduce the topic for discussion. It was Thorin's princely duty; it was practical, seemly, and honourable to declare himself. To do otherwise was to be false.

When they finished eating, Thorin cleared the table and washed the dishes, waving off Thranduil's offer of help. Chores done, Thorin sat at the table again and poured wine into two cups. His actions were so unusual that Thranduil, who had been heating water for a bath, left off and joined him at the table.

"Thranduil," Thorin said, then cleared his throat. "We have been living in close quarters. In the greatest familiarity. A person of my station – and of yours – does not do so lightly."

Thranduil looked attentive.

Thorin continued. "In the future, when I am of age and can negotiate contracts on my own behalf, I wish to resume this way of life in a more formal manner."

There. He had done it.

"You wish to live in the Greenwood?" Thranduil said, surprise on his face.

"Where is of no particular consequence," Thorin said, though he experienced a brief moment of worry. Would Thranduil want to live principally in Mirkwood, not Erebor? That was a hurdle he would address later. Thorin continued: "Please understand I would not have it said I took advantage while you were... while you were magically indisposed. I mean a stag."

Thranduil looked puzzled.

Thorin cleared his throat again, dimly aware his words were not quite hitting the mark. Emotion was clouding his reason.

"I am only a prince now," Thorin said. "But one day I shall be king of Erebor. If it is agreeable to you, it would be agreeable to me if our current arrangement of cohabitation was permanent. Under the same roof, preferably in Erebor, but I'm willing to–"

Thranduil suddenly laughed, not with meanness or cruelty, but joyfully, like Dis when she had beheld a basket of kittens in Dale.

"You do yourself honour by speaking," Thranduil said, with a deflatingly indulgent smile. "But it is unnecessary, Thorin, I assure you. It would have been better, perhaps, if you had not spoken, because..."

Thranduil paused, perhaps checked by the expression on Thorin's face. Thorin did not know what that expression was, but he sensed it was bleak.

"What you are feeling – for me – will not last," Thranduil said, his voice hearty and reassuring.

Thorin nodded, his neck stiff as a battleaxe.

"Let us drink a toast," Thranduil said, unknowingly reminding Thorin of men's laughable marriage customs. 

"A toast," Thorin said.

"Let us drink to the Mountain and the Wood," Thranduil said.

They drained their cups. When Thorin set his cup down, his rigid expression slipped. He feared what might be revealed in its place.

"Come," Thranduil said, smiling. "Do not regret speaking. I am flattered. You may even kiss me – if it would make you feel better, my prince."

Thorin got up from the table, bowed slightly, and went to a pile of firewood he had been meaning to cut into kindling. 

Thranduil's offer of a kiss, as if Thorin was a child to be jollied into a better temper, left Thorin furious. He would be scrupulously polite and proper in the future. He would show the elf!

Ignoring Thranduil getting on with a bath, Thorin threw himself into chopping wood, in the faint hope he would fall asleep quickly that night.

Thranduil was the first to climb into bed. Thorin reduced kindling to even smaller kindling. At last he could delay no longer; Thranduil was casting looks his way, noting Thorin's reluctance to come to bed.

"I will be retiring late tonight," Thorin said. "So as not to trouble you, I shall sleep in the loft."

Owl squawks came from above.

Thranduil looked puzzled again, which made Thorin even angrier.

Did Thranduil believe Thorin's offer of matrimony a childish whim, not even serious enough to last from dinner to bedtime? But then what elf _could_ understand the passion of a dwarf!

Thranduil pulled back the bedclothes, exposing a Thorin-sized empty space.

"But I am cold," Thranduil said, as if offering an irrefutable argument.

Thorin undressed and got into the bed.

He had come to a dismal conclusion.

Thranduil's calm reaction to his proposal meant Thorin's infatuation had not been as subtle as Thorin had hoped. Thranduil _had_ noticed – in hindsight, how could Thranduil have _not_ , living in such closeness and isolation – and so Thranduil had not reacted with surprise or shock, once understanding what Thorin was driving at.

Thorin's fury, and the relief it had afforded him, faded. He was not sure what would take its place. Resignation. Sadness?

No, alas. It was hope. Damnable hope.

At last Thorin grew drowsy, and passed into an unsettling dream.

Dark night air rang with a low, beautiful sound, a strong voice calling out in a strange language. Swiftly growing vines ensnared Silvermane's antlers, weaving through them to hold the stag fast. Thorin searched desperately for his axe. Not finding it, he was gripped with dread, for he had left his axe at home, in Erebor.

He woke with a start to find a sleeping Thranduil cuddling him, and quickly returned to his dreams.

* * *

Within two weeks, Silvermane's new antlers were budding. Long sunny days alternated with gentle rain.

The longer days brought a lighter mood to the elf.

Thranduil laughed when three owlets at last appeared at the edge of the loft, and made their first attempt at flight with varying degrees of success.

Thranduil laughed when the sheep grew round and fat.

"There will soon be lambs," Thranduil told Thorin.

Thranduil pressed Thorin to play the harp in the evening. When Thorin baulked, Thranduil laughed.

"You play for the stag," Thranduil said. "But not for me?"

Thorin then _had_ to play, wondering how much Thranduil remembered of being a stag. Thranduil complimented Thorin on his playing and on his singing.

When Thranduil discovered Thorin had carved several pieces to complete the chess set, Thranduil was volubly impressed by Thorin's artistry and craftsmanship.

Thorin was not sure what to make of Thranduil's smiling flattery. He feared its purpose was to cheer him. He feared its motive was pity. Neither was bearable.

But if Thranduil's mood had improved, Silvermane's was even more joyous.

Silvermane's joy, however, was no mystery to Thorin, because Thorin was absolutely sure of two things: Silvermane loved him, and Silvermane loved spring.

Silvermane gamboled in the pasture like a fawn with the increasingly stout sheep.

When Owl and her mate finally left the loft to hunt together, leaving Silvermane to mind the owlings, Silvermane permitted – nay, encouraged – the three owlings to perch on his head, where they clung to his budding antlers. 

Silvermane looked delighted when the owlings attempted to carry off the gerbils, which were larger than the owlings, and so barely noticed.

Thorin laughed at the sight of the determined owlings and the oblivious gerbils as well, but then felt a hollow pang in his chest.

The owlings at play unexpectedly brought Frerin and Dis to his mind.

Thorin had a sudden, urgent desire to see Erebor, to lay his hands on her stones, to stay up late in his rooms with Dwalin, talking long past midnight. To hold Dis and Frerin in his arms. His homesickness was so acute Thorin wondered that he had felt it so rarely.

That evening, Thranduil perhaps noticed Thorin's quieter mood, for the elf played the harp for him.

The music stirred thoughts of the forest in Thorin: of caves of golden sandstone, streams with clear cool water, and tall straight trees with the bright green leaves of spring. Of the songs of forest animals: the strange yip of a fox, the humorous snorting of a badger, and the melancholy but rousing call of a hawk.

Listening to Thranduil's playing, Thorin fell asleep by the fire.

He woke up in bed in the morning, well tucked in.

* * *

A few days later, Thorin was combing his hair when Silvermane rolled on his side, demanding combing for himself.

" _Now_ you want affection," Thorin said crankily, but he obliged.

Hair flew off the stag like falling snow, so Thorin coaxed the stag outside. Silvermane lay on the grass. When Thorin sat beside him, the stag rested his head in Thorin's lap.

"Good boy," Thorin said, and sighed, imagining combing Thranduil's hair.

Afterward, they dozed in the sun.

That night, Thranduil was unusually drowsy, and went to bed half an hour before Thorin. When Thorin got under the blankets, Thranduil's arm was immediately around him, and Thranduil muttered something in a strange tongue.

Thorin pretended to be asleep.

* * *

"It is almost midsummer," Thranduil said. "The blackberries will be ripe now."

Thorin smiled. "Then we should pay them a visit."

"We can stop by the tree house on the way back," Thranduil said. "I'd like to pick up a few books. And more wine."

Although winter was long past, Thranduil had made no mention of leaving to take up residence in the tree house.

Thranduil apparently wished to stay where they were. Because Thranduil wished to remain with Thorin? Or for some other reason?

They did not discuss it.

* * *

Leaving Owl in charge, they departed the next morning, Thorin riding Silvermane.

At night they camped in the open. The days were warm, but the evenings were still cold. Thorin pretended not to notice when Thranduil pulled close under their blankets.

Since Silvermane determined their route, the blackberries were their first stop, not the tree house. They arrived at noon on the fourth day, the warm scent of ripe fruit strong even to Thorin.

Silvermane ate blackberries and blackberry leaves with equal relish. Thorin restricted himself to blackberries, then lay on the stream bank and dozed in a beam of sunlight. The stag woke him half an hour later, and they resumed their journey, this time toward the tree house. 

They had not traveled far when Thorin spotted a snowy white owl overhead, gliding from tree branch to tree branch. He looked at it with idle curiosity. Too late, he saw gold bands circling the owl's legs.

The owl stared fixedly at Thorin and screeched in triumph.

"Silvermane!" Thorin shouted. "A scout!"

Silvermane went into a gallop.

Horns sounded. It was happening again. Thorin turned around and saw at least half a dozen elves on foot.

The elves were accompanied by an enormous elk saddled for riding, with no rider upon it. The elk bellowed, its call like a brass trumpet, and galloped toward them, faster even than Silvermane.

Silvermane was already running full out, sweating in fear. They were going to be caught this time. There was only one thing to do.

Thorin threw himself from the stag's back, landing hard on the ground.

Silvermane skidded to a stop, his eyes rolling in panic, and came back to Thorin. 

"Go!" Thorin said. He got to his feet slowly, winded from the fall.

Silvermane whinnied anxiously.

Desperate, Thorin slapped Silvermane on the flank. "Go, boy! Go now!" 

For once, Silvermane obeyed, and ran.

Thorin could already hear the elves calling out _Naugrim!_ He hurled the bag containing Thranduil's clothing into a nearby ravine, and waited, his eyes closed. The elves would reach him any moment. Then Thorin would delay them long enough for Silvermane to get away.

He opened his eyes when he was grabbed roughly, and looked up into the faces of his captors.

"Thorin, son of Thrain," a red-haired elf-woman said, her voice triumphant as the owl's call. "We have found you at last."

Another elf stripped Thorin of his weapons. Thorin's hands were bound in front of him.

Their treating him like a prisoner infuriated him. They had no right to do so. He had broken none of their laws, or given them any offence. But he said nothing, judging his silence would buy Silvermane the most time.

The elf-woman turned to one of her companions and said, "Send word to Thror his grandson has been found. Hurry!" 

The elf sped away, the snowy white owl following. Thorin counted nine elves left.

"Now we shall take a look at you," the elf-woman said.

She called for a torch. It was mid-afternoon, but very dark under the trees. Torch in hand, the elf-woman returned to Thorin, and amazement was plain on her face.

"I see we shall not have to fatten you up before sending you home," the elf-woman said. "You are a dwarf with some woodcraft!"

Thorin was clean, well-fed, his hair combed and neatly braided – evidently not what an elf expected of a dwarf lost in Mirkwood.

The elf-woman noticed Thorin's cloak of elven cloth, and the elven brooch that fastened it, and her expression seemed less friendly. She examined his dagger, and the bowstring on his bow, and looked grimly suspicious.

It was well the elves had not discovered the light crystal in their search; it remained in Thorin's jacket pocket.

Thorin had thrown himself off Silvermane on a steep slope near a ravine; it was not a good place to converse, so Thorin was not surprised when he was led away at a rapid pace. They had not gone far when they halted in a clearing.

The elves sat on fallen logs and began to eat; the elk had many saddlebags, some containing food. The elves looked bedraggled, and ate hungrily. Evidently they had been wearied by their pursuit, which gave Thorin some satisfaction.

The elf-woman said, "Unbind him."

Thorin was served food and drink, not registering its quality; he was too worried about Silvermane.

When the elves realised Thorin was not going to finish his meal, his hands were bound again, and the elves tied him to a tree.

After hastily eating, the elf-woman sat on the ground before him. Thorin stood, so he did not have to look up at her.

"Tell me, dwarf," she said. "How have you bewitched the white stag?"


	9. The Guardian Of The Forest

Thorin was so surprised at the question he gaped at her.

"Do not pretend ignorance," the elf-woman said, sounding angry. "You were seen riding the white stag. By doing so, you have broken our laws. It is forbidden to injure the Greenwood's white deer. It is also forbidden to capture them, or to hinder them in any way."

She had said "the" white stag, not "a" white stag. But apparently, despite her slip, she believed Thorin ignorant of the white stag's true identity, and had no intention of enlightening him. It was understandable. No people revealed their king was indisposed if they could help it.

"I will answer your question," Thorin said. "If you answer mine. And give me your name, as well."

That brought the elf-woman up short. But eventually she smiled slightly, and said, "I am Tauriel, captain of the guard. I cannot promise to answer your questions, but ask."

"Why does your king choose to be a stag?" Thorin said.

It was the only question Thorin had, but he saw from Tauriel's sudden frown he was not going to get an answer.

Tauriel stood and called out in Elvish. An elf untied Thorin from the tree, leaving his hands bound, and they set out on a march.

They marched for two hours. The pace was swift. Thorin had to take five steps for the elves' three, but he did not tire. Thanks to his excellent teachers – Silvermane and Thranduil counted as two, surely – he indeed had some woodcraft.

They halted in a large, tree-shadowed clearing. The elves lit a fire, so Thorin guessed they would remain there, perhaps overnight. Once again, Thorin was tied to a tree, but loosely, so he could lie down if he wished. An elf brought him a blanket.

Golden light touched the treetops, so sunset was not far off.

Thorin worried about Thranduil.

Thranduil had never had to transform alone, and now might have to transform alone, _and_ in the wild. Would the stag at least reach the tree house in time?

An elf walked toward Thorin with food.

Silvermane stepped into the clearing.

Tauriel exclaimed loudly in Elvish. Then, with a dazed look on her face, she fell to the ground, asleep, the other eight elves falling with her.

With a comically surprised expression, the great elk slowly toppled. By the time the elk was stretched out on the ground, it was snoring loudly, open-mouthed.

Silvermane rushed to Thorin and nosed his bound hands, trying to gnaw through the binding. When the stag failed at this, he whinnied in frustration, and pushed his nose against Thorin's face.

Smiling, Thorin kissed the stag on the nose.

Silvermane collapsed, and rose as Thranduil. Thranduil quickly undid the thong around Thorin's wrists, and untied the rope securing him to the tree.

"Cloak?" Thorin said, looking away from the naked Thranduil and pointing his chin at the sleeping elves.

"Not necessary," Thranduil said.

Thranduil went to the sleeping elk. From a saddlebag, Thranduil took a robe of black damask and a pair of silver-grey boots, which fitted Thranduil excellently; the elves had come prepared with clothing for their king.

While Thranduil dressed, Thorin recovered his weapons, and banked the elves' fire.

Thranduil laid a hand on the elk and called to it softly. The elk awoke, rose slowly, and nuzzled Thranduil's shoulder, nearly knocking Thranduil over. Thranduil removed two of the elk's saddlebags – leaving food for the elves, Thorin presumed – then Thranduil leapt onto the elk's back.

Before Thorin could make an objection, Thranduil reached down, clasped Thorin's hand, and pulled Thorin up in front of him.

Thranduil spoke a single word in Elvish. The elk bellowed, joyfully this time, and ran with tremendous speed toward the tree house. 

Thranduil's arm was around Thorin's waist as they rode. Night fell. Thorin took out the light crystal, and Thranduil hung it from the elk's enormous antlers.

* * *

They reached the tree house around midnight.

Thranduil left the elk at the foot of the tree; the elk's antlers were too great for it to ascend the stairs. They took the saddlebags and the light crystal and carried them up into the tree house.

Thorin brought water down for the elk. Back in the tree house, Thorin washed up at the basin, lit a candle, and kindled a fire on the hearth. Thranduil unpacked the saddlebags and set the table. Before them was a feast: a loaf of wheat bread, butter, cheese, fresh red apples, and golden wine. They ate rapidly, hungrily, and with little speech.

When they had finished their meal, Thranduil reached up and removed the blanket covering the window over the bed. Thorin left the light crystal on the table, and blew out the candle. They undressed and retired to bed. It was a warm night, so Thorin went to bed wearing only a tunic, as did Thranduil.

Thorin told Thranduil of all that had passed between him and the elves, including his question of why Thranduil chose to be a stag, which Tauriel had not answered.

"Your grandfather will learn you are alive and well," Thranduil said, not answering, either.

"It will be a great relief to my family," Thorin said. "So it is a great relief to me."

"You miss them," Thranduil said.

"Yes," Thorin said. For an instant, the hollow feeling of homesickness seized him. "Especially my brother and sister, Frerin and Dis. I promised to bring back gifts to them."

What could he possibly bring back? Mushrooms?

"Can your people track the elk here, Thranduil?" Thorin asked.

"No," Thranduil said. "None can discover this home in the trees, unless I will it."

They lay side by side, looking up through the window into branches tossing darkly, starlight twinkling on bits of glass, the sight not causing Thorin the slightest unease.

"I owe you answers," Thranduil said. "Why I became a stag. Why I flee my own people."

Thorin waited.

"It began with a shadow falling on my forest," Thranduil said. "Beornings deserted the western woods. Animals were slaughtered and left to rot. There were whispers of dark sorcery. I prayed for the strength to save my forest. I fortified my palace and increased the guard, but it availed nothing. "

Thorin made an encouraging sound.

"But at long last I understood I could not defend my kingdom by remaining behind its walls," Thranduil continued. "I remembered the words of the Lord of the Waters, who spoke thus to an elvenking of old: _Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart._ " 

The words struck Thorin with a deep uneasiness.

"And then I became a stag," Thranduil said. "I wandered the woods, and fled from my people. I had become a stag before, long ago, but only briefly, a day or two. This time was different. The wind brought the full tale of the Greenwood to my nose. My heart was new and tireless, and my strides were long."

Thorin smiled.

"The days passed so swiftly as a stag," Thranduil said. "As if the world was young again. I remember little enough of the experience. But I do remember your kindness."

"It was nothing," Thorin said, flushing with pleasure.

"When I became a stag, I believed my prayers had been answered," Thranduil said. "I was mistaken."

"But you have watched over your forest," Thorin said. "You have fought to defend it."

"Indeed," Thranduil said. "My prayers _were_ answered, but it was not becoming a stag that answered them. It was you, Thorin. Your arrival in the Greenwood."

Thorin was too surprised to reply.

"I do not perceive what part you will play, Thorin, in defeating the Darkness. I only know your part will be vital. Not the prince of legend, perhaps," Thranduil said, a smile in his voice. "But the prince I need."

"Ah," Thorin said, not entirely understanding, but nevertheless gratified.

"But alas," Thranduil said, "your fate does not lie here in these woods. You must return to Erebor, where one day you will take up the mantle of king. It is then, I deem, your deeds shall matter most, though it may be many years hence, as they are counted by men. You are clever, generous, and brave. You will be a great king."

"Thank you," Thorin muttered.

But Thorin's possible future deeds did not much interest him at that moment.

Silvermane had rescued him from the elves. But so had Thranduil.

Thranduil had looked at Thorin – with relief – affection – after transforming from a stag. Thorin remembered Thranduil's long fingers on the thong around his wrists, and the damp, nervous touch of Thranduil's hands.

Thorin had been twice-rescued; both Silvermane and Thranduil wanted Thorin to remain in the forest. Perhaps Thranduil's flattery had not been motivated by pity. Perhaps the elf cared for him. _The prince I need._ That was all that mattered.

"If the offer of a kiss still stands," Thorin said, "I would have it. Now."

Thranduil said, "It does," his voice unusually high. Was the elf nervous?

Thranduil placed a hand on the back of Thorin's head.

Thorin returned the gesture, placing a hand on Thranduil's neck, beneath the elf's hair, and was pleasurably surprised at the feel of Thranduil's skin there. Like Silvermane's fur, Thranduil's skin was soft, but beneath the softness was muscle almost as hard as stone. 

The touch of Thranduil's lips on his was also soft. Thorin was so overwhelmed he barely registered it. He could not have sworn afterward the kiss had happened at all.

They composed themselves for sleep.

But Thorin could not sleep, not until he had kissed Thranduil again, and properly. He lay awake, listening to the slightest sound from Thranduil, who was breathing evenly, as if in slumber.

It promised to be the longest night of Thorin's life.

Thranduil quietly, stealthily placed an arm around Thorin, then exhaled, his breath ruffling Thorin's hair.

The elf did not sleep, either.

"I ask for another kiss," Thorin said.

Thranduil's arm tightened around him, but Thranduil's voice was light.

"Really, Master Dwarf? How many kisses do you need?"

"A hundred more would not be enough," Thorin said, "but I only ask for one."

"Thorin–" Thranduil began, his voice full of caution and other things Thorin had no use for.

"I meant what I said, in the spring," Thorin interrupted. "When you lost your antlers. Perhaps you could not live with me in Erebor. I imagine leaving your forest would be painful for you. If that is so, then, when I am king, I shall build a palace for us in a tree by the River Running, and there we could dwell together. In the summer, at least."

Thranduil was silent for a while, then said, "I owe you an apology, Thorin, as well as an explanation."

Thranduil seemed to be picking his words with care.

"I should have not refused your request," Thranduil said. "To lead you out of the Greenwood."

Thranduil's arm around Thorin tightened even more. 

"It was selfish of me," Thranduil said. "But it has been a very long time since I desired something to... to _continue_."

Thorin sensed Thranduil had left something unsaid, but suddenly, unexpectedly, Thorin was filled with gentleness. His desire for Thranduil, fiery and impatient, was tempered by another equally strong: for Thranduil to be happy.

"Do not distress yourself," Thorin said. "But know I still wish – will always wish – for you to come to Erebor, Thranduil, if only for a season. If only for a day. There you would be the greatest jewel within the Mountain. But if it cannot be, Thranduil, I am still yours to command. Until all your battles are won."

"Thorin," Thranduil said, his voice no longer cautious.

Thorin kissed Thranduil. The kiss was different, harsh, encountering teeth, then turned slow and forceful. Thranduil rolled on top of Thorin.

Thorin had taken on a task he was ill-prepared for, but he was damned if he would not accept the challenge – and he was in a hurry. Dawn was not far off.

Thranduil kissed Thorin's neck. He pushed Thorin's tunic up and out of the way, and kissed Thorin's chest.

The elf's wet mouth on his chest brought sharp, astonishing pleasure. Thorin gripped Thranduil's hair and stroked it, as he had longed to do, holding it in tight fistfuls, hands overflowing with gold.

Thranduil's wet mouth traveled down, and almost it seemed an accident when Thranduil's lips grazed Thorin's belly, and lower still. Then the pleasure was an explosion, a blasting away of doubt, Thorin's grasp on Thranduil's hair unrelenting, until he gave way to pleasure completely, aware as of an echo of Thranduil's gasps for breath, Thranduil saying _Thorin_ , voice low and rough with use and satisfaction.

They kissed again, but Thorin had not had enough when Thranduil pulled away.

Thorin went to draw Thranduil close, but was stopped by the sad expression on Thranduil's face, the faint glow from the light crystal on the table illuminating Thranduil's features.

"I should not have done that," Thranduil said, his voice heavy and dull.

Before Thorin could reassure him, Thranduil continued.

"You are young, and mortal," Thranduil said. "What you wish for cannot come to pass." Thranduil's voice dropped lower. "A life shared."

Thorin had an objection ready, but Thranduil was still speaking.

"In the years to come, your memories of the Greenwood will dim," Thranduil said, his voice growing stern. "It is always so, for mortals. Your time here with the white stag – with me – shall fade, as if you had strayed into a dream."

Such a statement would normally have angered Thorin. The passion of dwarves did not cool. Thorin would not be false. But he understood Thranduil spoke from a place of deep sorrow, not one of chastisement.

"I shall not forget," Thorin said. "I swear to you, on the Beard of Durin."

Thranduil's sternness faded, and he looked merely sad.

"You do not know what you ask of me, Thorin," Thranduil said. "I have suffered one bereavement. I cannot endure another – and one that would last beyond the ending of the world."

Thranduil's breath ruffled Thorin's hair again.

"My wife perished in the War of Wrath," Thranduil said. "But she was reborn to her parents only ten years later, and grew again to adulthood. It was then that I met her, after she had been reborn. Then I lost her, years ago, before your people came to Erebor."

"Ah," Thorin said.

"She was reborn once," Thranduil said. "No elf has ever been reborn twice. Why is not known, except that elves can choose to exist in what you would call spirit form, and in that form serve the Valar. Such, I believe, was my wife's fate."

"I understand," Thorin said, and finally did.

Thranduil, unlike most elves, had truly lost his beloved.

"It may be that I shall see her again, when Eru at last unmakes this world," Thranduil said.

Dwarves did not speak of their fate after death to others. It had been revealed to the Fathers by Aule, and was to be known to dwarves only. But the knowledge swelled in Thorin's breast; he had to give it to Thranduil.

"You would see me again," Thorin said, defiantly. "Even after death parted us."

"What do you mean, Thorin?" Thranduil said.

"Dwarves also go to the Halls of Mandos; that is known by the wise," Thorin said.

Thranduil nodded.

"There they sleep," Thorin said. "What is not known, except to my people, is that it is their fate to sleep only until Arda is remade, when they shall help Aule in his labours. And it is said the dwarves shall labour at the side of the elves, who shall aid Yavanna."

"You know this?" Thranduil asked, his face full of wonder.

Thorin had no chance to reply.

In the branches above birds burst into song. The sun was rising. Sunlight glittered on the glass amidst the leaves.

Thranduil remained an elf.

Thranduil recovered from the surprise first.

"It would appear you have broken the enchantment permanently, Thorin."

Thorin smiled, and embraced Thranduil, filled with joy from learning his kiss was good enough.

Suddenly an owl – their Owl – flew into the tree house through an open window, and sat upon a bedpost. Moments later, a large raven flew in and sat on the opposite bedpost.

Under the avian scrutiny, Thorin hurriedly arranged blankets to conceal their dishevelment, sat up, and attempted to tame his hair with his hands.

"Another of your birds?" Thorin said to Thranduil, meaning the raven.

Owl hooted.

"The raven is not here for me, but for you," Thranduil said, who had also hastily sat up.

The raven flapped its wings, then croaked in the common speech, "Hail Thorin son of Thrain. I bring you a message from Carc, our chief."

"By my beard!" Thorin swore, astonished. 

"Your grandfather has had tidings of you from the elves," the raven continued. "The elves claimed to have found you, but then could not produce you."

Thorin recalled the runner sent by Tauriel.

"Thror has demanded you be returned to him by dawn tomorrow, or else," the raven finished.

"Else what, my good bird?" Thorin said.

"Or else the dwarves of Erebor shall invade Mirkwood," the raven said. "Already five hundred dwarves armed for battle are being ferried across the Long Lake. Thrain leads them."

Dismayed, Thorin looked at Thranduil.

"But my people must not enter the woods!" Thorin said. "They may offer battle to elves, but it is hunger and thirst in the forest which will slay them, and speedily."

"So also spake Carc, our chief," the raven said. "But Thror believes the elves are holding you for ransom, and he has had no word from the Elvenking" – the raven bobbed its head at Thranduil – "to gainsay it. Assurances from the Elvenking's son have not satisfied Thror."

"Cannot you speak to my kin?" Thorin asked. "And warn them not to enter the Greenwood?"

The raven made a harsh, laugh-like noise. "I have tried," the raven said. "Your father Thrain heard me well enough, but dismissed me with the claim all birds are in league with the elves."

Thorin had told Blain to carry a message to Erebor that elves sought to sabotage his mission. Blain would not have failed. Thorin had unwittingly increased his family's suspicions.

"Then you must take word to the elves that my people approach, armed for war," Thorin said to the raven.

Owl hooted.

"They already know," Thranduil said. "We must hasten to the Long Lake, Thorin." Speaking to Owl, Thranduil added, "Let my people know we are coming, and to do what they can to prevent the dwarves from entering the wood, if we fail to arrive in time. But no sword should be drawn, nor arrow loosed, except by my command."

Owl screeched and flew out the window. The raven bobbed its head once more, and flew away after her.

Thorin was crestfallen. He was consumed with worry about his people, but, selfishly, he was equally distraught his leave-taking of Thranduil was fixed at one day hence.

"Who will look after the sheep and the chickens at the barn house?" Thorin said. "The lambs will be born soon."

"I shall seek Beornings to resettle there," Thranduil said. "Have no fears for them, Thorin."

They rose from bed and ate a quick meal. While there was need for haste, they had to be presentable; councils of war lay ahead. They washed up, dressed in their finest, and combed and plaited each other's hair.

Thranduil drew an ivory-coloured crown from a saddlebag and placed it upon his head. In the heavy bronze chest he found a circlet of pearls and silver for Thorin to wear, and at last gave the gold belt back to Thorin. Thorin placed the belt around his waist, then returned the light crystal and dagger to the chest. Arrayed like kings, they descended the tree house stairs, mounted the elk, and departed.

Thorin rode behind Thranduil, his arms around Thranduil's waist. Thranduil's hair streamed against Thorin's face with every stride of the elk.

* * *

They rode through the day and through the night, with only brief halts to rest and water the elk. Thorin slept fitfully as they rode; Thranduil did not sleep at all.

As dawn approached, Thranduil started, his head swivelling like a wild creature catching a scent. Thorin felt damp wind on his face, and knew they neared the Long Lake.

A great host of elves, nearly invisible in the trees, silently encircled them. Tauriel, the red-haired captain of the guard, appeared on foot before them. She bowed low to Thranduil, and spoke in Elvish. Another elf led a saddled and bridled white horse.

"The horse is for you," Thranduil said to Thorin.

Thorin and Thranduil dismounted the elk. Ignoring Tauriel's hand offered in assistance, Thorin leapt onto the horse's back unaided. There was a ripple of sound among the elves.

"We will be in time, my lord, if we hurry," Tauriel said. "The dwarves have crossed the lake and are assembling on the shore, but have not yet entered the woods."

"Then we shall hurry," Thranduil said. He added a few words in Elvish.

There was an awkward silence, with Tauriel looking uncertainly at Thranduil. Then Tauriel turned and bowed to Thorin.

"I beg your pardon, Prince Thorin, for the ill treatment you suffered at our hands," Tauriel said, somewhat indistinctly, at least to Thorin's ears. "Please accept my apology."

"Apology accepted," Thorin said.

Thranduil walked to Thorin's horse and laid a hand on its head, speaking softly to it.

Seated upon the horse, Thorin was taller than Thranduil for once. Impulsively, Thorin leaned down toward Thranduil. Their lips met in a hard kiss.

Thranduil mounted his elk and cried out an order in Elvish. The host began to move, passing column after column of great dusty oaks, soon reaching the shore of the Long Lake.

The dwarves were there, five hundred as the raven had promised, their armour glinting in the sun. At their head was Thorin's father Thrain, and Thorin's cousins Balin and Dwalin.

The dwarves cheered wildly when Thorin came into view. Thorin urged his horse on, passing Thranduil and the elk. He leapt off his horse and ran forward. He was embraced again and again, hard steel thumping his chest, Thrain calling _My son_ , Balin crying out _Laddie_ , and Dwalin looking wet-eyed.

Speaking in Dwarvish, Balin questioned Thorin.

"Was any harm done to you, laddie? Did you meet with anything unpleasant in the woods?"

"I saw no one," Thorin said in the common tongue. "But for wild animals. I was attacked by a giant spider, and by a warg, but I defeated them."

He hated speaking the falsehood to his kinfolk, but he could not accurately describe his adventures without mentioning the white stag, and that he must not do. His people would view his sojourn with Silvermane as proof the elves had imprisoned him. 

When Thorin's exchange with Balin ended, Thranduil dismounted from the elk, and bowed his head slightly to Thrain.

"It must be known," Thorin said, "that I was rescued from the woods by the Elvenking himself. Without his aid I would have perished." That at least was true.

There was an equal amount of murmuring from the elves and the dwarves.

Thrain now faced Thranduil. "My son seems well enough," Thrain said. "Lucky for you. But matters are not settled between us."

Thranduil's face was set in a calm mask Thorin could well remember, but had not seen for months.

"There is the matter of the wood owed to us," Thrain said. "From last year, and this year as well! We paid in advance, but have not received so much as a stick!"

Thranduil's calm mask slipped. Thorin feared Thranduil was about to smile, even laugh – for which Thorin could not blame him.

"I'm sure the Elvenking will refund the sum," Thorin said, badly embarrassed.

"I shall, indeed," Thranduil said.

"I will believe that when Thror has the gold in his hands," Thrain said.

At some sign Thorin did not catch, the dwarf ranks behind them shifted on their feet, with a heavy, menacing sound of armour-clad boots.

Thorin exhaled slowly. He was sure he was equal to the task ahead. He was a prince. He had succeeded in a magical quest. He had even – perhaps – won the hand of the enchanted creature he had freed.

"Next year," Thorin said, "we shall not take any trees from the Little Greenwood."

The elves and dwarves received this in an equally uncertain silence.

"We have failed to meet the quota time and again," Thorin said. "If we were farmers, and the woods our fields, we would know they needed to lie fallow for a time. The Little Greenwood must be let alone, until it has recovered. Young pine from the shores of the Long Lake will serve us, if properly aged."

Balin nudged Thrain, who looked astonished at this long speech.

"Let it be so," Thrain said, ruining the moment slightly by adding, "If King Thror approves, of course."

Thranduil walked toward them, then, and bowed more fully, to Thorin and Thrain both.

Remembering Thranduil's kiss, Thorin took Thranduil's hand and kissed it in full sight of both their people.

"Farewell, Thorin," Thranduil said. "May we draw swords together again one day."

"At your service, and at your family's," Thorin said.

Thranduil bowed one last time, and said, his voice low so only Thorin could hear, "Remember my words, Thorin. _Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart._ " 

It was over. Surrounded by his kinsmen, Thorin boarded a ship, and was led to a well-appointed stateroom, where new clothing was laid out for him. The clothing was too short and too tight, but he put it on anyway.

He joined his kinsmen on deck, where a table was set with a feast. Standing beside Dwalin, Thorin confirmed he had surpassed his cousin in height.

Thorin tried to enjoy the feast, but his gaze kept straying west to Mirkwood, his thoughts lingering on Thranduil kissing him in the sight of the elves. Thorin took it as a sign Thranduil had not wholly rejected his offer, that it was still a possibility. That there was still hope.

Thorin gazed westward until the eaves of the forest were hidden in mist, and he could see them no more.

* * *

"What did the Elvenking mean, Thorin, by drawing swords together _again_?" Dwalin asked.

The feast was over; Thorin was in his stateroom with Dwalin and Balin. Thrain was on deck.

"I don't know," Thorin said. "Perhaps it's the elvish version of _at your service_. A courtesy."

"I look forward to a full account of your adventures, Thorin," Balin said. "Now that I know you came out of the forest unscathed."

Thorin smiled. Unscathed! Not a bit of it.

"Thorin, did you see the white stag again?" Dwalin asked. "He was enormous, bigger than a horse!"

"So you have said, brother," Balin said, winking at Thorin.

"I dreamt of him," Dwalin said. "When I was in that blasted enchanted sleep. Sometimes there were berries on his antlers. Once his antlers were dipped in blood."

"Nonsense," Balin said. "That is a fairy story."

Looking embarrassed, Dwalin excused himself and went up on deck.

"I saw the white stag, too," Thorin said. "He's real enough, Balin."

"Don't encourage my brother!" Balin said with a smile, then added, "Dwalin never gave up, you know. He searched all of the Little Greenwood for you, and would have searched all of Mirkwood if given the chance. You rest now, laddie."

Balin departed. Thorin lay on the soft bed, certain he could not sleep. But he must have drowsed after all, for he was awakened by a horn sounding above. They had reached the Long Lake's eastern shore.

Thorin rushed on deck. Homesickness suddenly overwhelmed him, leaving him hollow and unsteady. Tears streamed from his eyes. But before him, on one of Lake-town's great stone quays, stood the remedy: Dis and Frerin, blue and silver pennants clutched in their hands.

* * *

Thorin's welcome back to Erebor was full of feasts and song. His tale of killing a giant spider and a fierce warg was quickly embroidered, until it nearly surpassed the actual events. 

An event two weeks later eased Thorin's lingering sadness.

He was on Erebor's ramparts with Balin, looking toward Dale, when he saw a familiar sight, a great grey owl circling above. It held something in its talons, something like a box. Three smaller owls flew behind it.

Owl set the box down on the ramparts, and perched beside it. Gold bands set with white jewels circled her legs. The three small owls lined up next to their mother, basking in her importance.

"You've been promoted, I see," Thorin said, drawing an odd look from Balin.

A note on the box read: _A gift for Frerin and Dis from the Woodland Realm._ Inside the box was straw. Out of the straw peeped gerbils.

* * *

"They need more bedrooms," Dis said.

Frerin laughed. "At least a dozen!"

Smiling at them both, Thorin took up his chisel.

Two years had passed since the gift of the gerbils, who had rapidly outgrown their box home. It had been Dis who suggested they build the gerbils a new house on the side of the Lonely Mountain, carving it from an out-thrust pillar of green rock. 

It had not remained a simple house; it had become a city. Thorin, Frerin, and Dis worked on it regularly, eventually creating an Erebor-in-miniature for the gerbils, and spent many happy days on the side of the mountain at their work.

A hot wind blew. Pine trees creaked on the steep slope. Birds fled the trees with a wild cry.

"Thorin, what is it?" Dis said.

And so it was that when the dragon Smaug came, Thorin, Frerin, and Dis were not inside Erebor, but out on the mountainside, and survived when so many of their people perished.


	10. The Journey West - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **One Hundred And Fifty Years Later**

Early in the morning on Midsummer Day, Thorin set out from Erebor on foot. He quickly reached the Long Lake, where his vessel (an old fishing boat) was commanded by none other than Bard. 

They slipped out quietly at sunrise. The powerful wind at their backs would have alarmed Thorin if he had been sailing with anyone other than the former bargeman. They crossed the lake so swiftly there were still a few hours to spare until nightfall.

Thorin intended to journey down the River Running until he reached the _Men-i-Naugrim_ , where Bard would leave him. With Azog dead and the Necromancer banished, it would be safe enough to take the old dwarven road – assuming Thorin could find it – through Mirkwood.

Thorin had no plans to turn aside to visit the elves. He had not seen Thranduil since the battle.

* * *

Recalling his passage through Mirkwood half a year earlier, Thorin had nothing to be proud of.

A white stag had shown itself to him; he had let fly an arrow at it. Thranduil had come to him in the dungeon, had spoken soft words; Thorin had rewarded Thranduil with loud abuse. As Gandalf had accurately pointed out, Thorin had not made a very splendid figure as King under the Mountain – and Thranduil had been there to witness it.

Thorin had since apologised to his companions, to Bilbo, to Bard, and to the people of Lake-town, but had missed the opportunity to speak with Thranduil.

The first of Thranduil's warnings had not come to pass: Thorin had not forgotten his time in Mirkwood with Silvermane and with Thranduil. But Thranduil's second warning had been painfully on the mark. Thorin _had_ loved too well the work of dwarven hands and the devices of dwarven hearts. Thror's gold. The Arkenstone.

In the darkest hour, as Azog's legions attacked Erebor and Dale, the truth of Thranduil's warning had struck Thorin to his core. With the bewilderment of the treasure defeated, Thorin had left the Mountain to meet his doom on the battlefield.

The end of the Battle of the Five Armies was still hazy in Thorin's mind, however. He remembered a fall on the ice. A farewell to Bilbo. Eagles. Darkness. A dream of a great bear.

The day after the battle, Thorin had awakened in an elaborate and obviously elvish tent, opening his eyes to see Radagast the Brown. The wizard had cried out, "Goodness gracious!" and clumsily dropped a dark crystal in apparent astonishment.

Fili and Kili rushed to Thorin's bedside, quickly followed by all of his companions, including Bilbo and Gandalf. The hobbit left a week later with Gandalf for the Shire, but not before learning Thorin had pulled through.

While Thorin recovered, Dain managed his affairs. The people of Lake-town received a fourteenth share of Erebor's treasure, and began to rebuild Dale. Bard was crowned their king.

But when Thorin was well enough to sit on a throne again, he declined it. He gave the kingship to Fili and put the Arkenstone in his keeping. Orcrist he gave to Kili. Last of all, he charged Dain with watching over his nephews. 

Thorin's recovery after the battle was slow; he was too weak to get about for months. Winter had passed into spring, spring into summer. Not until Thorin could hike up the side of the Lonely Mountain without losing his breath did he consider himself fit for a journey.

He had climbed up to look at the miniature city he had built with Frerin and Dis for the gerbils. It was intact, but uninhabited. With the dragon gone, perhaps the gerbils would return, as the birds had.

* * *

When they passed from the Long Lake onto the River Running, Thorin joined Bard at the oars. On the river's western bank, Mirkwood's trees rose as sharp and solid as a cliff-face.

Thorin's mood was as sombre as the trees, until, a few miles from the old road's reputed location, there was a flash of white in the forest.

Thorin's heart beat rapidly. He was sure he had spotted a white deer.

"Leave me here, Bard, if you please," Thorin said. "You could not take me much further in any case. The river ahead is too shallow for this craft."

After an affectionate farewell, Bard departed, a rare wind in his sails. There would be no long return journey on foot, hauling his boat by rope, for the king of Dale.

Thorin shouldered his heavy pack and marched south on the tow path. He deemed the white flash was a sign of hope, though of what he dared not put into words.

He had expected the tow path to be overgrown after years of disuse, but the way was still clear, and Thorin could keep up a swift pace. Lake-men must have passed by recently. 

After walking a mile, Thorin saw the flash again.

But it was only a snowy white owl rising out of the trees and flying west.

It was a bitter disappointment, prompting Thorin to acknowledge the nature of his hope: to receive a sign his passage through Mirkwood was, if not precisely welcomed, at least not begrudged.

But there was an immediate problem; sunset was no more than an hour or two off. Thorin would soon have to halt for the night. He continued down the tow path, looking for a likely spot to lay down his pack. He had no tent or other luxuries. If moths joined him at his camp fire, Thorin would have to put up with it. He might even welcome the company.

Thorin rounded another bend, and stopped.

In the middle of the river, balanced on stones in the water, stood a white stag. 

His heart pounding again, Thorin set down his pack. He bowed from the waist.

Was the stag there to grant admittance to Mirkwood, or to refuse entry?

Thorin could presume nothing.

After the battle, by the time Thorin had worked up the nerve to see Thranduil, the Elvenking had already returned to Mirkwood. Legolas had remained in Dale to aid the people of Lake-town, so Thorin had apologised to Legolas instead, who had promised to convey the message to Thranduil. Thorin knew it was not enough.

The stag turned toward the western bank and looked back at Thorin, who took it as a sign he could cross the river. He shouldered his pack again, forded the river halfway, and halted a dozen feet from the stag, who was still perched on stones.

Thorin did not know if the white stag was merely a stag, or something more. But perhaps it did not matter, since Thorin was no longer a king. He was a simple traveler, passing through another's realm, and should therefore give an account of himself.

"Greetings, O stag of the Greenwood," Thorin said. "I seek the _Men-i-Naugrim_. I desire to travel through your forest, over the Misty Mountains, and west to the Blue Mountains. The _Ered Luin_ , that is."

The stag lifted its ears inquiringly.

"My sister lives there," Thorin said.

The stag made for the western riverbank. Thorin followed. They picked their way along the rocky shore, Thorin carefully stepping over tree roots.

The sun was at last going down, her light leaving with her.

"I beg your pardon," Thorin said to the stag. "I must stop here for the night. I cannot see in the dark – not as you can. This spot will serve as well as any. You are most welcome to join me." 

Thorin set down his pack and arranged smooth river stones to serve as a temporary hearth. Suddenly he was struck in the back. It was not a hard blow, but, taken by surprise, he went sprawling. He rolled over and looked up at the stag. 

The stag had prodded Thorin's back with its antlers, knocking Thorin over.

"Silvermane?" Thorin said.

The stag bleated and lay beside Thorin, rubbing its muzzle against Thorin's shoulder.

"Silvermane!" Thorin said.

His throat tightened. His eyes burned.

After embracing the stag about the neck, Thorin got up and put on his pack.

"If you are in the mood for night riding–" Thorin began, but before he could finish _then so am I_ , the stag reared in excitement, pawing the air.

When the stag settled down, Thorin climbed up onto its back, and they set off, the stag leaping from stone to stone down the centre of the wide, shallow river.

If Thorin thought upon it, encountering Silvermane was extremely unlikely. But whether the white stag was truly Silvermane or not, the stag's company filled Thorin with contentment, and he was too grateful to question it.

Remembering the past, however, Thorin erred on the side of caution in one respect.

"Perhaps I should say I seek the most _direct_ route through the forest," Thorin said. "I must reach my sister before winter comes."

The stag bleated agreeably.

A few miles later, the stag left the centre of the river for the western bank. But when they reached it and passed beneath Mirkwood's trees, the stag's hooves continued to splash quietly.

They had entered a marsh, the trees rising like immense mossy piers out of the water all around them.

Thorin was not sure whether to be disappointed or encouraged. If the road's eastern end was submerged, it would explain why the road's terminus had been long hidden. On the other hand, following a sunken road at night exceeded Thorin's tracking skills, and could very well exceed the stag's.

The water deepened, rising to the stag's flanks. Thorin's unease grew. The marsh could be many miles wide, and he and the stag could not continue on indefinitely without a rest.

There was a soft _swoosh_ , and the stag was swimming. Thorin quickly drew up his legs to keep his boots out of the water, even though his boots were already damp from fording the river earlier.

The trees were wedged against one another; getting a boat through would be nearly impossible, but the stag continued on, swimming almost silently in the dark still water.

Just when Thorin was about to ask the stag to turn back, moonlight revealed a squared-off pillar half sunk in the earth, perhaps the remains of a signpost. A thrill went through Thorin at the sight.

The stag's hooves struck soft mud. They were out of the marsh and on solid ground once more.

"Good boy," Thorin said, and patted the stag's neck. "I should have known you would find the way."

The immense trees were still chokingly close together. The further they went, the darker it grew, until Thorin could see nothing except an occasional glimpse of splintered paving stones amid the tangle of tree roots.

Trailing ivy tugged at his pack. Dislodged dead leaves crept down the back of his neck. He hastily pulled up his hood.

A night ride, indeed! What if the journey on the _Men-i-Naugrim_ was like this for the next hundred miles? The only comforting thought Thorin could come up with was this: it was not the worst idea he'd ever had.

Then they plunged out of the dark forest and into bright moonlight.

Before them a wide, level road ran west, dark granite gleaming black under the stars and moon, paving stones fitted together so tightly not even an elf hair could get between them.

The forest grew right up to the road's edge, trees arching overhead, so the effect was rather like a tunnel, with only a slender strip of night sky visible above.

Thorin blinked. For a moment, a yellow light had twinkled before him in the trees.

The white stag trotted swiftly down the road, as eager as an old horse with its stable in view.

The _clip-clip_ of the stag's hooves, together with the brief glimpse of the yellow light, reminded Thorin of the last time he had traveled on a cobbled road late at night, anxious to reach the warmth promised by windows glowing cheerfully in the darkness ahead.

* * *

Nearly two years earlier, after spending months searching the deserted wastes of Dunland for his father, Thorin had arrived late at night at the Prancing Pony in Bree. There he had met Gandalf, and the direction of his life had changed.

But not instantly. When Gandalf had broached the topic of taking back Erebor, Thorin's first reaction had been scorn.

"It is impossible," Thorin had said, and had stared without appetite at the meal he had been devouring moments before.

"Not impossible," Gandalf had replied, almost lightly. "I would say merely… absurdly difficult."

"I am in no mood to be made a fool of, Gandalf. About Erebor, I am serious. Deadly serious."

In his youth, Thorin had survived on fantasies of killing Smaug, recovering the treasure of his forefathers, and claiming the throne under the mountain. But after his father's disappearance, Thorin had made a home in the Blue Mountains. Half a world away from Mirkwood and Erebor, he had been slowly reconciled to his lot, but Gandalf's words had brought the old burning grudge back. Thorin knew in his heart it had never gone away.

So Thorin had agreed to leave the Prancing Pony's common room, and retire with Gandalf to a private parlour, where the wizard sat by a small hearth, firelight flickering on his bushy eyebrows and long beard.

Gandalf was in the midst of assuring Thorin the journey to the Lonely Mountain would not be unduly difficult, when Thorin interrupted to insist on a route that would not take them through Mirkwood.

Not yet knowing Gandalf, Thorin believed he could demand an alternate route without explanation. But after several pointed questions from the wizard, Thorin was compelled to recount his long-ago adventure with Thranduil and the white stag.

As Thorin described the first time the stag had transformed into Thranduil, Gandalf shook with suppressed mirth, then laughed openly. Even Thorin smiled a little.

"I'm sorry," Gandalf said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "But I can well imagine it."

Before Thorin could resume his tale, they were interrupted by one of the Prancing Pony's servants, a hobbit who laid before them a second, and far better, dinner.

When the servant departed, Thorin continued. He left out as much as he dared, with an uneasy suspicion Gandalf guessed nearly all he left unsaid.

"I was trapped in Mirkwood by an enchantment," Thorin finished. "I will never willingly enter that forest again."

"How do you know an enchantment was involved?" Gandalf asked, his voice impatient, as if only a wizard was qualified to make that judgement. "A forest like Mirkwood is quite tricky enough without one."

"Because of the vines," Thorin said.

As the years passed, what Thorin had once recalled as a youthful idyll in the forest had taken on a different, darker cast. His face heated, Thorin explained he had become convinced the vines which had entrapped Silvermane's antlers had been an enchantment by the stag, not an accident. He was sure of it because of the similarity to Thranduil commanding a tree to drop a limb during their battle with trolls.

"Perhaps," Gandalf said. "But I do not understand your anger, Thorin. It sounds a pleasant enough adventure for a young lad."

So Thorin divulged more: to an unnatural degree, he had been only rarely struck with homesickness while in Mirkwood. He was sure Silvermane and Thranduil had used enchantment to ease his longing for home so he would stay in the forest.

"I lost a year," Thorin said. "A year in Erebor with my family before the dragon came."

The mirth vanished from Gandalf's face.

"That year is a treasure I can never regain," Thorin said.

For a while, the only sound was the rain beating against the parlour's windows. Then Gandalf knocked the ashes from his pipe onto the hearth, refilled the pipe, and lit it.

"What you must try to understand," Gandalf said quietly, "is that a year is nothing to an elf. I am not making excuses. It is simply a fact."

At last taking Thorin's concern about traveling through Mirkwood seriously, Gandalf assured Thorin it was perfectly possible to pass through the forest without meeting a single elf.

Filled with a hot desire to see Erebor again, Thorin was willing to believe it. He promised to meet up with Gandalf soon, at a place of Gandalf's choosing.

So, a year later, when Gandalf had turned aside at Mirkwood's border, leaving the dwarves and Bilbo to make their way through the vast forest on their own, Thorin had a foreboding of disaster, a foreboding quickly realised when they were captured by Mirkwood's elves and brought before Thranduil. 

Thorin had not told Gandalf that encountering Thranduil was his chief dread, since a mere blacksmith could not hope to win the hand of the Elvenking. While Thorin had long ceased entertaining any hope in that quarter, he had still resolved that he would meet with Thranduil as a fellow king, or not at all.

When Thranduil refused them aid, and clapped the dwarves in the dungeons for good measure, Thorin had experienced the greatest fury of his life. Later, Thranduil had visited Thorin in the dungeons to try to talk him out of the quest.

Distracted by Thranduil's beauty, which was unmercifully unchanged, Thorin had paid little attention to Thranduil's words, for Thorin's fierce desire for the Elvenking was equally unchanged. That, at least, had been no enchantment.

But the persistence of his desire only increased Thorin's fury. Thorin had shouted, "I have not undertaken this quest for _myself_ ," and refused to say another word to Thranduil – and, thanks to Bilbo, Thorin had not needed to.

In Dale after the battle, while recovering in the tent, Thorin had had a very different conversation with Gandalf.

By then, Thorin understood how pride had driven him. He _had_ undertaken the quest for Erebor for himself. He had done it for the best of reasons, but also for the worst.

Propped up in a bed, Thorin had apologised to Gandalf, but the wizard had cut his explanation short.

"I bear the blame for what has happened, Thorin, as much as you, if not more," Gandalf had said. "I placed the key in your hand. Gave you the map. Set things in motion."

The wizard had sighed heavily, then smiled.

"Neither of us were in control of the forces unleashed. Forces for good, Thorin, not just for evil. That is what I believe."

It had been to Gandalf that Thorin had first spoken of the idea forming in his mind and heart: to decline the throne of Erebor.

Gandalf had smiled, and said, "I am glad to hear it. Gladder than you can know. Giving up what you once believed your pride demanded will bring you peace, and entirely removes any fears I had for you. Unless I am much mistaken, you will have no need of me in the future. But there may come a time, Thorin, when I will need _your_ help."

They had not spoken long. Gandalf had been unaccountably in a hurry to get Bilbo back to the Shire; some unspoken care troubled the wizard's mind.

* * *

The stag's hooves continued to ring out on the dark stones. While Thorin had mused on the past, they had traveled at least five miles on the repaired road.

There! Thorin saw the yellow light twinkle again in the trees ahead. But such a welcoming, homely sight was unknown in the forbidding darkness of southern Mirkwood.

While the moonlight lasted, he and the stag could continue traveling, but Thorin had to admit he was weary. Should he seek the source of the yellow light, or dismiss it as a trick of the forest, and halt now for the night?

The stag bleated loudly. Its ears angled forward, as if it expected an answer to its call.

Taking it as a sign to continue searching for the light, Thorin patted the stag's neck, and said, "Stop here for a minute. There's a good boy."

He slid off the stag's back, placed a hand on its shoulder to lead it, and slowly walked forward until what lay before him became clear.

The mended road ran another quarter of a mile, and then the chaos of half-buried broken stones resumed. At the end of the restored roadway, a steady yellow light shone brightly from high up in a great tree.

As he and the stag had traveled down the road, Thorin had expected the repaired stretch to end any moment. Each mile of road would have required thousands of hours of skilled masonry. The work force would have been necessarily small, to keep it secret from the Enemy; repairs would have proceeded slowly.

With growing excitement, Thorin realised the work on the road must have begun many decades earlier. 

And if Thranduil had seen fit to start work on the road long ago, when Thorin had been an itinerant blacksmith half a world away, then what else might be possible?

Thorin's weariness vanished. He removed a blanket from his pack.

"Silvermane, be still for me, there's a good boy," Thorin said.

He kissed the stag on the nose, and immediately threw the blanket over the stag, anticipating the transformation.

The stag bleated in confusion.

"My apologies," Thorin said, nearly as confused.

He untangled the blanket from the stag's antlers and returned it to his pack.

"Thorin," a voice full of laughter said.


	11. The Journey West - Part II

Thorin turned around.

Thranduil stood twenty feet away upon the road. The Elvenking was not dressed in regal robes, or in glittering armour, but in simple green and brown like an elven guard.

"His name _is_ Silvermane," Thranduil said. "It was a good name, so I reused it. I am sorry, I did not think…" Thranduil smiled, his teeth showing.

Thorin threw back his hood and smiled in return.

It could not be a coincidence that Thranduil had met him here. Had the snowy white owl, which had taken flight from the riverbank, been a messenger?

"Am I expected?" Thorin said.

Thranduil closed the gap between them, took Thorin's hand in greeting, and swiftly released it.

"In a way," Thranduil said. "I knew you once wished to rebuild the road, and might come this way again. My people have begun the work, as you have seen."

The stag nosed Thranduil's hand for a treat.

"It seems I must repeat myself," Thorin said. "Unless the stag speaks?"

"Not in a language I understand," Thranduil said, and smiled again.

"Then, by your leave, I wish to travel west through the Greenwood," Thorin said. "My destination is the _Ered Luin_ , where my sister lives."

"And then?" Thranduil said.

"I will escort her back to Erebor," Thorin said.

They walked side by side up the road, west toward the tree and its yellow light. The stag followed.

As they drew closer, Thorin saw that a low stone wall surrounded the great tree. Closer still, he saw the wall was twelve feet in height, not so low after all.

A wide gate in the wall faced the road. Stairs gracefully wrapped around the tree trunk. The tree was an enormous oak, with a regular shape and lofty spreading branches, ideal for the tree palace Thorin had once dreamed of. 

"What is this place?" Thorin asked.

"A rest house," Thranduil said. "For my folk labouring on the road. You are welcome to find shelter here tonight."

They went through the gate, then a passageway; the wall was unexpectedly deep. Inside, built into the encircling wall, were storerooms, a kitchen, and stables. In the stables were an elk, a horse, and two mountain goats.

"How did they get here?" Thorin said in surprise, meaning the goats.

"Those that lost riders fled after the battle," Thranduil said. "Some followed my folk into the forest."

The goats were no longer armoured; their saddles and bridles hung on the wall. Thorin went to the goats and scratched their ears.

After the stag was made comfortable next to the elk, Thorin and Thranduil climbed the staircase. Thorin opened the door at the top.

They stood in a spacious entrance hall. Additional stairs wrapped around the trunk to upper floors. Off the entrance was a dining hall with seating for twenty.

The dwelling was more of a tree manor than a tree house. Thorin nodded approvingly, but inwardly he was disheartened. The place appeared to be as Thranduil had described it, a means to provide room and board to many elves – not what Thorin had begun to hope it was, a private palace for a king and an ex-king.

The tree manor and the mended road most likely had nothing to do with Thorin. After all, why shouldn't Thranduil undertake to repair an important road that ran through his realm? Thorin reminded himself he could presume nothing.

Thorin set down his pack in the entrance hall. They hung up their cloaks, and washed their hands at a basin.

On a wide balcony, they sat on wooden stools. Thranduil served them ale, bread, and cheese. As they ate and drank, they looked west. The sun was far below the horizon, but from their high vantage point they could see the last of the day's light, a pale purple streak outlining the deep blue Misty Mountains.

Below them ran the end of the repaired road, where it returned to ruin.

"It looks as if it had been attacked by stone giants," Thorin said.

"Not giants," Thranduil said, and smiled. "Gerbils."

"I beg your pardon?" Thorin said, not sure he had heard Thranduil correctly.

"In time, even the mightiest road is overthrown," Thranduil said. "And not by the powerful, or the great, but by the smallest of animals tunnelling a den."

Thorin smiled, but one thing still troubled him.

"Is repairing the road wise, these days?" Thorin said. "There is still evil in Moria. The road could give our enemies a passage to strike in the east."

Thranduil nodded gravely. "Yes, but the work will take many years, even if every dwarf in Middle-earth labours upon it. Any danger is far off, and much may change in that time."

Thorin must have looked worried, for Thranduil added, "I will conceal the road from unfriendly eyes, if necessary."

"I am sure it won't be," Thorin said. "As you say, the road will take many years to repair, particularly as I do not command every dwarf in Middle-earth." Thorin hesitated, and said, "In fact, I do not command any."

"Indeed," Thranduil said mildly. "Still, you may choose to continue the work yourself. Unless you trust in the skill of the elves." 

Understanding he was being teased, Thorin smiled.

Thranduil poured more ale, and handed the refilled cup to Thorin.

With the gesture, the imagined scent of sheep's milk, like a sunny shadow of summers past, filled Thorin's senses, and memories of his Mirkwood year flowed back, unmarred by old grief. Thranduil scolding gerbils for eating flowers. Thranduil wrapped in a blanket, gratefully accepting food, moments after transforming from a stag. Thranduil laughing, head thrown back, at the owlings' antics. Thranduil's arms around Thorin in sleep.

Whatever Thranduil's intentions concerning the road and the tree manor, Thorin was certain he had once experienced a side of Thranduil unknown to all others.

No one else had known Thranduil so at peace, so content, with a simple life in the forest, as Thorin had, when he had been Thranduil's companion. Perhaps it was selfish, even proud, but Thorin would hold the remembrance close in the days to come, no matter what the future brought.

Thranduil looked up at the stars, and smiled.

"I will ride with you to the western border of my land, as far as the Misty Mountains, if you wish," Thranduil said. "We can start in the morning."

"If you wish to ride with me, you are welcome, Thranduil. Indeed, you do not need my permission."

Thranduil bowed his head an inch.

"But I fear it will be tedious for you," Thorin said. "You will be riding an elk, and I will be on foot."

"You are welcome to the goats," Thranduil said. "They are yours, after all. Take both. Ride one. The second can carry supplies, and perhaps later bear your sister east."

Thorin thanked Thranduil profusely. He had not brought a horse or pony because of the difficult terrain ahead; mountain goats would be up to the challenge – and would be far less picky about forage along the way.

"Where will you go after?" Thranduil said. "I am sorry; I have already asked that."

"Once my sister is safely in Erebor?" Thorin said. "It is a long journey; I have not yet decided on what will come after."

Thorin had not considered his own fate, only that of Dis. He had made no plans beyond escorting her to Erebor to reunite with her sons.

"I may return to the _Ered Luin_ ," Thorin said. "And make my home there."

Thranduil was quiet, then said, "Your exile is ended; do not put yourself in exile again."

"It would be exile by choice," Thorin said softly, and – he hoped – without bitterness.

Thranduil smiled briefly, for the first time showing a trace of uncertainty.

"Allow me to show you to your sleeping quarters, Thorin."

* * *

Thorin followed Thranduil up the stairs to a second level. They passed many hammocks slung (carelessly, to dwarven eyes) in the tree branches, but Thranduil led Thorin to a large, well-furnished room, with proper walls, floor, and ceiling.

"I am not turning you out of your bedroom, I hope," Thorin said.

"Not at all," Thranduil said, his face a serene mask.

Thorin was about to answer _Very well, then, if you insist,_ when he saw, in the far corner of the bedroom, a tall mirror with an ornate silver frame. Beside it was a large wooden harp. On a table an egg-shaped crystal glowed.

"This _is_ your bedroom," Thorin said. 

Thranduil muttered something, but Thorin, distracted by a familiar chess set on a table, did not hear the words clearly.

Thorin noted a stag king, an owl bishop, and a gerbil pawn. He picked up the stag king and inspected it closely. His woodcarving ability had greatly improved since those days, but there was no doubt it was the work of his hands.

Thranduil had gone back to the barn house for the chess set, and kept it.

Thranduil had cared for Thorin then, and still cared for him, regardless of all that had happened since.

Thorin set down the chess piece. His doubts about Thranduil's intentions, concerning the road and the tree manor, began to scatter as fast as squirrels before owls.

Rounding the bed, Thorin touched Thranduil's arm.

Thranduil made a soft sound of surprise, but did not shy away.

"I cannot put you out of your room," Thorin said.

He had a notion as to why Thranduil was offering up the bedroom, but he had to be absolutely sure. He must make a show of rejecting the offer to see how vigorously Thranduil insisted upon it.

Thorin's notion was this: that the tree manor had been built years earlier for Thranduil and himself. But then Thranduil had lost hope, as Thorin had, so Thranduil had converted the dwelling into a rest house.

"Don't be ridiculous," Thranduil said, his serene expression failing for a moment. "Dwarves do not like hammocks."

"True," Thorin said. "But the stable will do for me." 

"I, on the other hand, prefer a hammock," Thranduil said, serene again.

Thorin could not think of a rejoinder. Then his gaze again landed on the harp, and he had an idea. Words were proving difficult; music might serve.

"I should at least sing for my supper," Thorin said.

Before Thranduil could object, Thorin picked up the harp, seated himself on the bed, and began to play.

Moving stiffly, almost clumsily, Thranduil sat down on a chair, his expression cautious.

While Thorin played, he studied Thranduil.

He had been so caught up in his own struggles he had overlooked that Thranduil's struggles were just as great.

Thranduil was cautious for good reason; Thranduil was protecting himself from the chance of future loss. No, not the chance, the _certainty_ , for Thorin was mortal, and Thranduil was not. 

Thorin had experienced many losses of his own. But, with Smaug dead, he had reached an understanding with the grief in his life. In the future, his grief would neither rise, nor ebb, but would continue exactly as it was. It was an odd peace, and not one Thorin could have ever imagined accepting.

But it was the same peace Thranduil had once achieved, when Thorin had apparently broken the Elvenking's enchantment permanently. Thranduil's grief had not vanished then, but, for the first time, Thranduil had let hope flourish alongside it. It was that hope, not Thorin's kiss, which had freed Thranduil from being a stag. Of this Thorin was certain.

Thorin had the same hope. But alas, the music was not having the softening effect on Thranduil that Thorin desired.

Thranduil was growing remote, his face guarded, like an ancient tree in his forest, shrouded and still with age, living yet not wholly present. Thorin had not expected the music to persuade Thranduil to lay his head in Thorin's lap, but Thorin _had_ expected a better result. 

Thorin set the harp aside. "I must make a confession," Thorin said. 

"Oh?" Thranduil said, his voice distant.

"I once judged you harshly," Thorin said. "For relinquishing your kingship while you were a stag. I know better, now that I have abandoned a crown. I must apologise for that, and for… everything else."

Thranduil held his head higher, but he relaxed slightly, his hands resting loosely in his lap.

"You may not wear a crown," Thranduil said. "But you still command many hearts."

Thorin smiled. There was only one heart he wished to be sure of. And at last he believed he had the power to remove the obstacles that lay before him, for they were obstacles of his own making.

Thorin had once been certain he could only win Thranduil if he reigned in Erebor. It was up to him to let go of that last bitter shard of pride, and to accept that, to Thranduil, it had never mattered. But Thorin did not castigate himself for his late understanding; he had to become a king, and give it up, to find it.

Gandalf had said giving up the throne would bring Thorin peace. Gandalf had been right. And yet, Thorin realised ruefully, he could not be entirely humble. He was not a king, true, but he _was_ still an immensely wealthy dwarf.

"You would not be rebuilding the _Men-i-Naugrim_ alone, Thorin," Thranduil said. "Call your people, and they will come."

Thorin rose to his feet.

Thranduil rose with him. "Thank you for playing," Thranduil said.

"You seemed troubled by it," Thorin said.

"Not troubled," Thranduil said. "Though perhaps… It reminded me of the time I first heard you play."

Thorin cast his mind back, but could not remember. "Which was when, precisely?" 

"There was moonlight," Thranduil said. "You were playing by the river. Moonlight shone on the water."

Thorin was about to say, _Of course, I remember_ , but then he looked up sharply at Thranduil. 

Thorin had played by the river his first night in the Little Greenwood, days before Thorin had met Silvermane, and months before Silvermane had become Thranduil.

But a white glimmer had moved on the other side of the river that night, a white glimmer Thorin had resolutely looked away from.

It had been Silvermane Thorin had seen.

Long ago, an elf had asked Thorin, "How have you bewitched the white stag?" And at last Thorin knew the answer. With moonlight and music. With the sound of his voice across the water. If Thranduil had cast an enchantment, so had Thorin.

By Silvermane and Thranduil, Thorin had been twice-rescued. He had also been twice-chosen, first swiftly by Silvermane, then slowly by Thranduil.

"Thorin," Thranduil said. "Perhaps I should not have begun the work on the road without consulting you first."

Thranduil hesitated; it was strange to see him so tentative.

"I began it to save you time," Thranduil said. "While it cannot make up for the time you lost, I… it is what I could do."

Thorin took in a sharp, surprised breath. 

Gandalf had said _a year is nothing to an elf_. But now Thranduil was expressing regret for Thorin's lost year, and revealing he had begun long ago to address the wrong, as best as he could.

Thranduil's swift departure after the battle took on a different light. Thranduil was as worried about Thorin's forgiveness as Thorin had been about Thranduil's.

Thorin felt a burden lift from him. 

Once Thorin would have blurted out his feelings at length, if not with clarity. But now Thorin knew the gentle, indirect approach often served better.

Thorin picked up the stag king chess piece again, and held it out before him.

"I have a mind to take this with me," Thorin said, flourishing the stag. "As a keepsake of the journey."

"But that would ruin the set," Thranduil said.

Thranduil reached for the chess piece.

Thorin enclosed the stag king in his fist.

Thranduil took Thorin's hand, unwrapped Thorin's fingers from around the chess piece, and set the chess piece on a table.

Then Thranduil kissed Thorin's hand. A great shiver ran through Thranduil, head to foot. 

Thranduil stooped to be kissed. Thorin was no longer an inexperienced dwarven boy, so when he kissed Thranduil full on the mouth, Thranduil swayed.

Who made the first move was uncertain; Thorin only knew moments later they were on the bed. Thranduil temporarily silenced Thorin by kissing him.

Thranduil had not only apologised for the year he had taken from Thorin. By confessing he had heard Thorin sing by the river, Thranduil had admitted that now, if not necessarily in the past, he could remember much of his time as Silvermane.

Thranduil hoped Thorin would forgive and forget. Thorin had already forgiven the elf. But forget? Never.

The time for Thorin to worry about presuming too much was over. He could presume everything.

"Good boy," Thorin said softly. "My lovely."

Thranduil flushed dark red.

To tame Thranduil, Thorin had nothing but soft speech, the heat of his kisses, and his hard-tempered hands. And as with the white stag years before, Thorin coaxed Thranduil, gentled Thranduil, until Thranduil turned over to offer his back, Thorin gripping not a mane but Thranduil's hair, and they were in an altogether new and yet familiar place, the borne and the bearer.

"My lovely," Thorin whispered again.

Like Silvermane had long ago, Thranduil was taking Thorin to where enchantment could exist. And as before Thorin was willing to leave his world of order and straight-angled stone behind. Willing to be lost, with Thranduil's smooth skin and hard muscle beneath him. To be lost, then found.

* * *

In the ceiling above the bed was a window. Looking up, Thorin saw starlight running through leaves like silver running through rock.

Thorin was deliciously tired, but he left the bed and returned with water and wine. He held a goblet to Thranduil's lips, then his own, and they slept, Thranduil's arm over Thorin, as it once had been, and should always be.

No taming was truly needed. They had both been overmastered years ago.

* * *

The chatter of birds woke Thorin. He had slept as well as he had anticipated.

Thranduil stirred beside him.

"Good morning," Thorin said.

Thranduil smiled sleepily. "This place is a home for you, Thorin, if you wish it."

Thorin stroked Thranduil's hair.

"When we last spoke of this, I was a prince, and expected to be a king," Thorin said. "But one thing has not changed since then. I will live here only if you live here with me. In the spring and summer, when the weather is mild. In your caverns, when it is not."

Thranduil closed his eyes, a wild creature softening at a touch.

"Then that is how it shall be," Thranduil said, opening his eyes. "When you have returned, and your sister is safe in Erebor, you will find me here."

"You may hold me to that," Thorin said. "With or without a pledge–"

"Elves do not stand on ceremony," Thranduil said.

Thorin said, "I know," and enfolded Thranduil in his arms.

Twice-chosen, Thorin would be homesick no more.

As a youth, Thorin had loved Thranduil as a prize that would not be his unless seized tight with both hands. Thorin loved Thranduil still, but with a different love, a gentler love. He loved Thranduil as a fellow being, one of great goodness, but with sometimes faltering feet. Like his own.

"Now get up," Thorin said. "Time to pack." 

Thranduil looked shocked. "You really mean to start _now_?"

"Of course," Thorin said, happiness welling in him. "It must be half past six in the morning, and we have an absolutely miserable road to travel together."

THE END

[Silvermane and Thorin in the Little Greenwood](http://megatruh.tumblr.com/post/128188648290/prince-thorin-and-stagthranduil-in-little) by megatruh.

**Author's Note:**

> I must now blame/praise [megatruh](http://megatruh.tumblr.com/post/83264684070/stewardish-megatruh-speed-painting-based-on) and [eyebrowofdoom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/pseuds/eyebrowofdoom), who convinced me writing a Thorin/Thranduil-is-a-stag story was necessary.
> 
> The story would never have been posted if not for eyebrowofdoom's heroic beta-ing of a sprawling tale written over many months.
> 
> Please see [megatruh's gorgeous illustrations](http://megatruh.tumblr.com/post/128188648290/prince-thorin-and-stagthranduil-in-little) for this story. 
> 
> Story inspiration credit must go to a bold stag who tried to steal my food using the middle-of-the-night tree-ramming method while I was camping in a forest. Thorin telling Bilbo in Bag End _I was a fine, adventurous lad_ , as his reason for being outside the Lonely Mountain when Smaug attacked, prodded me to think about the adventures Thorin had before Smaug came.
> 
> Thorin's old sayings about wargs and winter weather are from _The Fellowship of the Ring_. Trolls not enjoying the taste of elves is made up based on Gollum's reaction to _lembas_ in _The Two Towers_. Thranduil's improvised hammocks are my interpretation of the bedding supplied by the elf Gildor in _The Fellowship of the Ring_. Snippets of Thorin's and Gandalf's conversation in Bree paraphrase _The Quest For Erebor_ in _Unfinished Tales of Numenor and Middle-earth_.
> 
> Elves never being reborn twice, and sometimes choosing to serve the Valar, is from _The Peoples Of Middle-earth_ , as is the dwarven view of the afterlife. The _devices of the heart_ line is from Ulmo getting on Turgon's case in _The Silmarillion_.
> 
> In general, I stuck to book canon and characterization, not including plots introduced by _The Hobbit_ films, such as Thranduil refusing to help the dwarves when Smaug attacked. In _The Hobbit_ , Tolkien states Thorin and his relatives have no old grudges with the woodland elves:
> 
> _"So to the cave [the elves] dragged Thorin–not too gently, for they did not love dwarves, and thought he was an enemy. In ancient days [the elves] had had wars with some of the dwarves, whom they accused of stealing their treasure. […] All this was well known to every dwarf, though Thorin's family had had nothing to do with the old quarrel I have spoken of."_ The Silmarillion and the Hobbit films for Thorin's maturity level at age twenty-two. According to _The Silmarillion_ , dwarves, while long-lived in comparison to men, quickly reached full strength: _And Aule made the Dwarves even as they still are […] because the power of Melkor was yet over the Earth; and [Aule] wished therefore that they should be strong and unyielding._ Tolkien was unclear about dwarven maturation. In his sixties, Gimli was considered too young to go on the Quest for Erebor ( _The Quest For Erebor_ in _Unfinished Tales of Numenor and Middle-earth_ ), but Thorin and Frerin fought at the Battle of Azanulbizar while in their forties ( _The Lord of the Rings_ appendices). 
> 
> The eastern end of the Old Forest Road, or _Men-i-Naugrim_ , is lost in a marsh in Hobbit book canon. For the sake of clarity, I gave the name the Little Greenwood to Mirkwood east of the River Running.
> 
> Thranduil's description of his time as a stag in chapter nine owes much to James Stephen's translation of [The Story Of Tuan Mac Cairill](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2892).
> 
> After choosing Silvermane as the name for Thranduil-the-stag, I learned Silvermane is also a Marvel comics character (who is a villain, and currently consists only of a detached head which a boy is trying to put on a robot. Or so I gathered from the ninety seconds I spent looking at the Wikipedia entry).
> 
> While gerbils are unlikely in a northern woodland, I decided I had to have them, habitats be damned. They surfaced because of a documentary on Troy, in which an archeologist complained about gerbils messing up the layers and making it hard to date stuff.
> 
> End notes are limited to about 750 words, so I must stop. Send questions to stewardess dot lotr at gmail.com, or leave a comment, but let me unload a headcanon right now about events after this story timeline: Thranduil rides with Thorin as far west as Rivendell, waiting there until Thorin arrives with Dis, and together they travel east to Erebor. When the dwarves finish rebuilding Dale and Erebor, many come to work on the _Men-i-Naugrim_ , filling every hammock.
> 
> If you are inspired to extend this story by writing the further/alternate adventures of Thorin, Thranduil, and Silvermane, or missing scenes, ~~or stag porn,~~ please do! Minor corrections to all chapters were made August 26, 2015.


End file.
